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“I — I Don’t Want to Take It.” 




Witch Crow and Barney By low 


BY 

JAMES BALL I^YLOR, 

Author of “ The Cabin in the Big Woods,” Ralph Marlowe,” 
“ In the Days of St. Clair,” etc., etc. 


Illustrated by 
CARLL B. WILLIAMS 


THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY 
NEW YORK AKRON, OHIO CHICAGO 


UBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

JUL 12 1906 



Copyright, 1906, 

BY 

The Saalfield Publishing Company 



Made by 

Robert Smith Printing Co., 
Lansing, Mich. 




ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

“I — I don’t want to take it” Frontispiece / 

The little old woman walked up and down bobbing and 

teetering i6 ^ 

“Stop, thief! Stop, thief!” ^8/ 

“Hello, Rube! W’en did you get in?” 64 

“Where’s the money?” he asked coldly 98 


Mickey Marvel !” came in a hoarse croak from the desk . . 1 1 2 



WITCH CROW AND BARNEY BYLOW 
Chapter I 


ARNEY BYLOW was a farmer’s son — an only child — 
twelve years old, red-headed and freckled; a quick-witted, 
self-reliant and sturdy youngster. His parents were not wealthy, 
but they owned the little farm on which they lived — and they 
owed no one. The big frame farmhouse, weather-beaten and gray, 
was cheery and comfortable — warm in winter and cool in summer; 
and the deep well in the corner of the yard, around which 
the hollyhocks and sunflowers smiled and nodded and dozed in the 
Summer sunshine, was an unfailing source of the clearest and cool- 
est water in all the neighborhood. Past the door ran the winding, 
never-ending highway — dust-white in summer and snow-white in 
winter; and just across it were the big red barn, the stacks and sheds 
— and beyond, the fields and woods rolling away toward the creek 
valley a mile distant. 

Everything about the Bylow farm and home was trim and well 
kept. Orchards, groves and fences, farmyard, garden and fields 
were clean and tidy. Horses were well fed and glossy; cattle were 



I 


IVitch Crow 


fat and sleek; sheep and porkers were placid and content; and chick- 
ens, turkeys, and ducks were bustling and cheerful. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bylow were a hard-working and happy couple. 
Round-faced and rosy, they slaved and saved that Barney — their 
darling and their pride — might have a prosperous future. The 
warmest desire of these loving hearts was that their son might grow 
up a man of means and influence. To this end they taught him to 
work and sent him to school ; and constantly impressed upon his mind 
that he must form habits of industry and frugality. 

But all this was just what Barney did not appreciate or enjoy. 
He felt that he was ill-used, that his lot was a hard one. Work 
was tiresome; school was distasteful. Play was all right; but labor 
was all wrong. True, it was good enough sport to hunt the eggs 
cunningly hidden deep in the fragrant hay of the great barn mow, 
and to ride the work horses to and from the fields; but, then, there 
were the long rows of corn to be hoed — where the heat waves shim- 
mered and danced at noon — and the garden to be weeded. It was 
no great hardship, to be sure, to fetch the cows from pasture or to 
feed the fowls; but think of digging potatoes and picking up ap- 
ples in the orchard! It was great fun, of course, to go fishing and 
swimming in the creek — as he was permitted to do almost every Sat- 
urday afternoon of the long summer; but consider for a moment the 
drudgery of carrying water and sheaves in the hot harvest field. 


2 


and Barney Bylow 

And he could go skating and coasting in winter; but at the close 
of every day he must get the firewood and do other odd chores. 
What a botheration! Was ever a boy more misused and put upon 
than he? The industry and thrift of his parents did not appeal to 
Barney. Work! Play was much more pleasant and profitable — 
so he decided. Economy! Money was made to be spent. Of what 
use was it otherwise? And there were so many things he needed 
and desired that his parents could not afford to buy — so they claimed. 
They asked him to work, and to go to school — to be cheerful and 
obedient; and all the while he wanted to roam in the woods, to do 
as he liked — to be his own master. 

He had plenty of wholesome food; but what boy cares for 
wholesome food when his palate longs for ice-cream and chocolate 
candy? What boy cares whether his stomach is full of wholesome 
food — especially when it is full — whose head is full of ponies, pony- 
carts and harness? He had good rough-and-ready clothes for work 
and school, and a better suit for Sundays; but what right-minded 
youth appreciates mere homely raiment when his soul is famished 
for a gold watch and chain? The linen of the great four-poster 
bed in which he slept was spotless; but how could Barney give this 
fact due weight and credit, when his dreams were all of air-guns 
and bicycles? 

Barney was not lazy, really; he simply liked to do the things 


3 


JVitch Crow 


he liked to do — and disliked to do the things he disliked to do. So 
he looked upon his parents as pushing and penurious ; and made up 
his mind that he was a much abused youngster. Also, he resolved 
that he detested home and school, that he desired, above all things, 
to have an abundance of money to spend — without the inconven- 
ience of earning it, and that at no distant day he meant to run away 
from home, conquer the world for himself and enjoy it to the ut- 
most. Alas, poor self-deceived urchin! 

Still, with all his vain longings and imaginary troubles, Bar- 
ney was measurably happy; but he didn’t realize it. He had a sav- 
ing sense of humor that kept him from becoming a morose and 
sullen pest; and, in spite of an occasional cloud upon his sunny face, 
he was the light of the household. 

When alone at work or play, he was in the habit of thus talk- 
ing to himself : 

“Never mind! I’m going to be rich some day — and have just 
everything I want, and do just as I please. I’m going to live in a 
city, too — all the rich people live in the cities. And they don’t have 
to work and do the things they don’t like to do; they know just 
how to get lots of money without working for it. I don’t want to 
be rich with houses and stores and things; it would be too much 
bother to look after them. I just want money — lots of money — 
as much as ten thousand dollars.” Ten thousand dollars to Barney 


4 


and Barney By low 

meant an inexhaustible amount. “Or I’d just rather have money 
in my pocket all the time — no matter how much I’d spend, still 
have money in my pocket. My, wouldn’t that be nice! Oh, I wish 
I could be fixed that way!” 

One June day, at dinner time, his father said to him: 

“Barney, did you weed out the onion-beds in the garden this 
forenoon?” 

“No,” Barney admitted rather reluctantly. 

“Why didn’t you?” Mr. Bylow asked sharply. 

“Why — why,” Barney stammered, “I — I was helping mother 
with the washing and churning.” 

In fact he had forgotten all about the task his father set him 
before going to the hayfield that morning. 

“You haven’t been busy all the time, helping your mother,” 
Mr. Bylow said sternly; “you’ve been idling away your time. Now, 
I’m going to set you another task for this afternoon. I’ve mowed 
the small meadow lot over next to the big woods this forenoon ; and 
you can go over there and rake up the hay. If you work as you 
ought, you can have it all raked up by three o’clock. At that time 
I’ll come with the team and wagon; and we’ll haul it in to the barn. 
If you don’t get it done. I’ll have to punish you; you’ve worn out 
my patience.” 

It was a sad and subdued Barney that left the barnyard a few 


5 


IVitch Crow 


minutes later and trudged off to the hay lot, a rake upon his shoulder, 
and his red lips puckered into a pout of discontent. However, it 
was not in the cheerful nature of the lad to be downcast for long; 
and soon the ugly scowl upon his face had melted away in drops of 
sweat, and his pursed lips were emitting a merry whistle. 

On reaching the hay lot, he went to work sturdily and reso- 
lutely; and was agreeably surprised to find that it was rather good 
fun to rake the dry and fragrant hay and toss it into billowy wind- 
rows. For an hour he worked steadily; and realized that what his 
father had told him was true: that he could be done by mid-after- 
noon. Thereupon he resolved that no punishment should be his — 
that his father should have cause for praise rather than blame; and 
he worked harder than ever. But the fates were against him and 
his good resolves, apparently. The sun beamed down from a cloud- 
less sky; not a breath of air stirred. The sweat trickled down Bar- 
ney’s face and smarted his eyes, and his temples throbbed, but he 
worked away stoically. His tongue became dry and his throat 
parched; but he kept on. Finally, however, he yielded to heat and 
thirst, and threw down his rake and sought the little brook that 
gurgled and sparkled in the cool depths of the woodland near at 
hand. 

Then, indeed, his troubles began. While he was slaking his 
thirst and laving his burning face and hands, a crow came and 


6 


and Barney Bylow 


perched upon the dead limb of a 
tree near him, and flapped its 
wings, and cawed stridently and 
impudently, cocking its head and 
peering down at him. Barney 
could not stand that. What self- 
respecting boy could? He caught 
up a club and hurled it at the 
saucy bird ; but the black offender 
nimbly dodged the well-aimed 
missile, and bobbed and cawed 
and flapped delightedly. That 
was too much; Barney grew 
angry at such rank impertinence. 
He gathered a handful of stones 
and began a mad fusillade upon 
his tormentor — for such he 
deemed the bird. The crow 
dodged and danced about upon 
the limb, raising a great hubbub 
with its cawings and guttural 
chucklings. It appeared to take 
a human delight in defying the 



JVitch Crow 


lad; and — as Barney imagined — wore a look of human intelligence 
upon its expressive countenance. At last it tired of the sport, seem- 
ingly, and took slow-winged flight through the woods; and Barney 
noted that it had a narrow strip of white feathers down the middle 
of its back, reaching to the end of its tail. 

^‘That’s an odd-looking crow,” he muttered, fanning his flushed 
face with his torn straw hat, “and a funny-acting one. I’ll know it, 
if I ever see it again.” 

On his return to the hay lot, he vigorously resumed work; but 
had gathered but a few rakefuls when he came upon a bumblebees’ 
nest. Of course he could have worked around the home of the bold 
and busy honey-makers, leaving ungathered the wisp of hay shelter- 
ing them; but that would have been contrary to the nature of a 
daring, fun-loving youngster like Barney. He promptly stirred 
them up — and was as promptly chased across the lot and into the 
woods, receiving more than one sharp prod to spur his flight. 

Then he was hot figuratively and literally; and must make an- 
other pilgrimage to the brook. There he again encountered the 
pestiferous “white-feather crow,” as already he called it, and a sec- 
ond time put it to flight — after a deal of wasted energy on his part, 
and a deal of hoarse croaking and cawing on the part of the crow. 

Then, weary from the heat and his recent exertions — and feel- 
ing a faint drowsiness stealing over him, he dropped down upon 


and Barney Bylow 

the mossy sod at the root of the tree, sleepily pillowed his head upon 
his arm, numbly placed his hat to shield his face from the attacks 
of buzzing insects — and immediately lost consciousness. 



9 


IVitch Crow 


Chapter 11 



ARNEY sat up with a sudden jerk, and rubbed his blink- 
ing eyes and gazed about him in a half-stupid, half-startled 


manner. 

“Why — why, I thought I heard some boy laughing, and call- 
ing my name,” he muttered. “Oh, I wonder how long IVe slept! 
Maybe father’s come!” 

“Haw, haw, haw!” laughed a cracked, hoarse voice over his 
head. The boy sprang to his feet, ran from under the spreading 
branches of the tree, and directed his gaze upward. There upon 
the dead limb sat the white-feather crow — actually nodding and 
bowing to him. 

“Oh, it’s you, is it!” Barney muttered in a tone of disgust. 
“Well, I haven’t time to bother with you now, old White Feather; 
I must get back to work. I wonder, though, what you hang around 
me for?” 

“Haw, haw, haw!” the crow laughed again, cocking its head 
and winking — as Barney would have sworn. “Haw, haw, haw! 
Bawrney Bylaw!” 

“Why — why, it’s saying my name!” the lad exclaimed, taking a 
step backward in amazement and mild affright. 


lO 



and Barney Bylow 

“Well, if that don’t beat all!” 

The crow fluttered its feathers, cawed and bobbed — then turned 
upon the limb and took flight into the further depths of the wood. 

Barney returned to the hay lot, puzzled — and wondering 
deeply. The hay was not more than half raked; and the sun — as 
he noted with a sickening sense of dread — was far down the western 
arc of the heavens. 

“Pshaw!” he grumbled, a scowl wrinkling his freckled face. 
“I slept too long; it must be time, almost, for father to come. I 
can’t get it all raked now. I wonder what made me go to sleep — 
what made me so sleepy? There’s no use to work any more; I 
can’t get it all done — and father’ll punish me, sure.” 

Then, after a moment’s moody silence : 

“That old White Feather’s to blame. And I never saw such a 
funny crow. I know I heard it laugh; and I think it called my 
name.” 

Then suddenly he hollowed his hand and put it to his ear. A 
faint rumbling, rattling sound came from far across the fields. The 
boy listened intently. The sound drew nearer — grew louder and 
more distinct every moment. 

“That’s father coming with the team and wagon!” Barney 
whispered, his heart beating a tattoo against his ribs. 

“Now I’ll catch it! For father never breaks his word. And 


JVitch Crow 


— and I suppose I ought to be scolded, at least; I could have had 
the job done.” 

Then, with quick resolve and tightening of the lips : 

‘‘But I won’t stay and be punished — I won’t! I’ve meant to 
run away for a long while; I’ll go now — this very minute.” 

Immediately he put his resolve into action. Over the rail fence 
he scrambled, and skurried away in the direction of the distant high- 
way — as fast as his bare, brown legs could carry him. Occasionally 
he slackened his speed and cast a quick glance over his shoulder, to 
note if his father was in sight; and each time he drew a deep 
breath of relief that his flight was not observed, and ran on, pant- 
ing. 

On reaching the highroad, he dropped down in a shady fence 
corner and lay there, gasping and listening. The hay lot was hid 
from sight by an intervening elevation of ground, but there were 
no signs or sounds of pursuit. No one was following him — no one 
was calling him; and he began to breathe easier— the tumultuous 
throbbing of his heart began to quiet down. 

At last he arose and took a long look around at the familiar 
fields, fences and woods. To the west, just over the green knoll 
of the pasture field, was the hay lot he had left so hurriedly. His 
father must be there — ^wondering what had become of his recreant 
son. To the south lay home — the roofs of house and barn barely 


12 


and Barney Bylow 

visible above the intervening orchard trees. There was his mother. 


Barney knew that she would 
sleepless nights would be hers, 
templated would grieve his 
parents; but he choked down 
the lump in his throat, set his 
teeth, and determined to carry 
out his rash resolve. 

Up the dusty country road 
he plodded. Far away to the 
north, lying like a dark cloud 
bank against the distant sky- 
line, he could discern the smoke 
overhanging the city toward 
which he was bound — which he 
had visited but a few times in 
his life. On and on he went. 
The sun sank lower and lower, 
until it was but an hour above 
the horizon. Barney was weary 
and hungry. He stopped and 
took a drink at a wayside 
spring, and dropped down 
upon a mossy stone to rest. 


worry over his absence, that many 
He realized fully that what he con- 



IVitch Crow 


“Haw, haw, haw!” 

“Well, I declare!” ejaculated Barney, springing to his feet 
“If there isn’t old White Feather!” 

Sure enough, there was the white-feather crow perched upon 
a near-by fence stake. 

“It appears I’m going to have company upon my journey,” Bar- 
ney laughed. 

Really he was quite pleased that the peculiar crow had seen 
fit to follow him. The lad was just a trifle homesick already, though 
he had got but a few miles from home. The declining sun had set 
him to thinking fondly of all he had left behind. 

“Haw, haw, haw!” laughed White Feather. “Bawrney Bylaw!” 
Bawrney Bylaw!” 

“Well, what do you want?” demanded Barney, moving toward 
the stake on which the bird was perched. 

But the saucy crow did not await his near approach. While 
he was yet some yards distant, it arose and flapped leisurely to an- 
other post farther up the road, cawing and haw-hawing as it went. 
Barney followed; and again the wary fowl took wing at his approach 
and moved on to another perch — reaching which, it bobbed and 
chuckled and winked impertinently. 

Barney was disgusted, and cried out peevishly: “You’re a cow- 


14 


and Barney Bylow 

ard, old White Feather! If you want to say anything to me, why 
don’t you stop and meet me face to face — and say it!” 

The crow drew itself erect, fluttered its feathers, and — Barney 
would have sworn to the startling fact — smiled and nodded at its 
challenger. Then it flapped to the ground at the boy’s feet; and in- 
stantly it had disappeared, and a little old woman dressed all in black 
was there in the bird’s stead. 

Barney started back, rubbed his wondering eyes, muttered — 
“Why — ^what — what — ” ; and could say no more. 

The little old woman stood bobbing and curtseying and preen- 
ing herself — just like an overgrown crow. Her face was thin, 
wrinkled and dark; and her eyes were small, black and snappy. 
Upon her head she wore a curious hood or bonnet of ebony hue, quite 
pointed in front; and draped and drawn closely around her shoul- 
ders and neck, wholly concealing her arms and hands, she wore a 
cloak of the same sable color as her hood. It reached the ground 
in a point behind, and had a narrow white stripe down the middle. 
Her dark skirt was short and scant; and her slim ankles and small 
feet were encased in shiny black shoes. 

“Who — who, what — what are you?” Barney managed to say. 

The little old woman laughed a harsh, cackling laugh, and 
walked up and down in front of the lad, bobbing and teetering as a 
crow does. 


15 


tVitch Crow 


Finally she made answer to his question: 

“You want to know who I am?” 

Her voice was hoarse and grating. 

“Y-e-s,” Barney stammered. 

He had not yet fully recovered from the tremor of surprise and 
fear into which her sudden appearance had thrown him. 

“And you want to know what I am?” she went on, comically 
cocking her head and grinning. 

“Yes,” he answered. 

He was rapidly regaining his composure. 

“And you desire me to tell you who you are? ” she continued. 
“You can’t tell me who I am — you don’t know me,” he replied 
positively. 

“Don’t I?” she laughed, opening wide her toothless mouth and 
revealing her shrunken gums. “Listen! — 

“Now, I know you 
And you know me — 

And that’s as plain 
As plain can be — 

For Fm the jolly Witch-Crow; 

And you know me 
And I know you, 


i6 



The Little Old Woman Walked Up and Down Bobbing and Teetering. 




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and Barney Bylow 

And so I say: 

How do you do — 

How are you, Barney Bylow?” 

Then she laughed again heartily; and Barney stood and stared 
at her. ‘ 

“How do you like my poetry?” she asked. 

“It isn’t poetry,” the boy replied sturdily but ungallantly; “it’s ^ 
what my teacher calls doggerel.” 

“No, it isn’t!” she disputed, bringing her lips shut with a snap. 
“Dogs compose doggerel; crows compose crowerel!” 

And once more she laughed that hoarse, rasping laugh. 

“Oh, do stop!” cried Barney, his palms to his ears. “You set 
my teeth on edge.” 

“You don’t set mine on edge,” she chuckled, opening wide her 
toothless jaws. 

Barney’s fear had vanished. 

“Are you a crow?” he demanded. 

“I’m the Witch-Crow, or the Crow-Witch,” she made answer. 

“Which?” he asked. 

“Yes, witch,” she returned. 

And amused at her play upon the words, she laughed and bobbed 
and shrugged her shoulders until she choked, last her breath and 
balance — and almost tumbled over in the dust of the road. 


17 


IVitch Crow 


‘‘Now, what are you — crow or witch?” Barney insisted when 
she had recovered from her fit of merriment. 

“Either, neither, and both,” she replied. 

“How can that be?” 

“Well, when I’m a crow. I’m a crow, eh?” 

“Yes.” 

“And when I’m a witch, I’m a witch?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then, you see, I’m either.” 

“I see.” 

“And when I’m the Witch-Crow, I’m not a witch — not a crow; 
I’m neither.” 

“To be sure.” 

“And, yet, being the Witch-Crow, I’m both. Understand?” 
“No, I don’t,” Barney said flatly. 

“Well, you’re not versed in witch-lore, and I’ll excuse you. 
Now let’s talk about yourself. So you’re running away from home, 
eh?” 

Barney nodded. 

“And you haven’t a dollar — a cent, even — in your pocket.” 
“How do you know?” the boy asked quickly. 

“Well, I know!” — her face close to his, and her black eyes 
sparkling. 


i8 


and Barney Bylozv 

“You haven’t any money — now, have you?” 

“No,” he confessed. 

“Why don’t you say ‘no, ma’am’ ?” she croaked irritably. 

“Why — why, I — I — ” Barney explained lamely and haltingly, 
“I don’t know whether a witch, or a witch-crow, or whatever you 
call yourself, is a ma’am.” 

“Oh, you don’t!” laughed the Witch-Crow. “Well, I am a 
.ma’am. But let it go. I’ll tell you what you may call me: you 
may call me White Feather — not Old White Feather, mind you, 
as you called me when you thought me just a crow. That’s disre- 
spectful. And now let’s get back to your business — for I must be 
of! about my own. You’d like to be rich, wouldn’t you?” 

“I — I’d like to have money,” Barney admitted. 

“Lots of it?” 

“Yes, indeed.” 

“But you don’t want to work for it.” 

“No-o — no, ma’am,” he replied, half ashamed. 

“How much money would you like to have?” 

“Oh, as much as — as a whole heap — as much as ten thousand 
dollars; or — or — ” 

“Well?” White Feather croaked impatiently. 

“Or I’d rather just have money in my pocket all the time — never 
be without it, no matter how much I might spend,” Barney hastened 
to explain. 


19 


M^itch Crow 


“That arrangement would suit you better than to have ten thou- 
sand dollars in a lump?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Nothing else would satisfy you so well?” the Witch-Crow per- 
sisted. 

Barney shook his head. 

“Very well,” she said; “so it shall be. But you mustn’t grow 
tired of your bargain.” 

“I’m not likely to grow tired of having money to spend — and 
spending it.” 

And Barney laughed at the bare idea. 

White Feather thrust forth a skinny, claw-like hand, from the 
folds of her black cloak. In her palm was a single penny. 

“Listen!” she said huskily. 

“ ’Tis money you crave! 

This penny I bless; 

You’ll never have more — 

And you’ll never have less!” 

With the words she dropped the coin into the boy’s gaping 
pocket. He started back, dismay upon his face. 

“You — you don’t mean to say that I’ll never have more than 
a penny, do you?” he cried falteringly. 


20 


and Barney By low 

“That’s just what I mean to say — and do say,” the Witch-Crow 
laughed, hugging herself and weaving to and fro. “You’ll never 
have more than a penny; but, then, you’ll never have less — you must 
remember.” 

“But that doesn’t suit me at all,” Barney pouted. 

“It’s what you asked for.” 

Barney dejectedly shook his head. 

“Yes, it’s what you asked for,” White Feather insisted. “You 
said you wished to have money in your pocket all the time, no mat- 
ter how much you might spend. Well, you can’t spend more than 
you have. I’ve given you what you said you desired above all things. 
But I must leave you to work out the puzzle for yourself. Good- 
-bye.” 

Instantly she was gone. Barney stood alone in the dusty high- 
road; and the white-feather crow was winging its way toward a 
distant wood. 



21 


IVitch Crow 


Chapter III 

H arney watched the marvelous crow until it disappeared 
among the forest trees. Then he pinched himself to see if 
he was awake, and was rather surprised to find that he was. 
Next he turned and looked at the declining sun. It was just sinking 
from sight behind the western hills, and long, lank shadows sprawled 
along the dusty road, misshapen and grotesque. 

“I must be moving on,” the lad murmured to himself, a catch 
in his voice. 

“I — I almost wish I hadn’t run away from home. I’m hungry 
and tired; but I don’t know where I’m to find supper and bed. I 
can’t go back, though; I can’t — I won’t!” 

He set his teeth, squeezed back the tears that would come into 
his eyes, and resolutely set forward. 

^‘This penny I bless; 

You’ll never have more — 

And you’ll never have less!” 

He whispered the doggerel rhyme to himself as he wearily plod- 
ded along. 


22 


and Barney Bylow 

^‘Confound the old Witch-Crow!” he muttered angrily. “She 
was just fooling with me. The idea of giving me a rusty old 
penny, and saying I’d never have more and I’d never have less! Of 
course, she was just fooling — just teasing me — just making sport of 
me. Well, I’ll show her whether I won’t have less! I’ll throw 
the hateful old penny away.” 

He took the paltry coin from his pocket and flung it far among 
the tall weeds of the roadside. 

“There!” he said with a grin — for the moment forgetting that 
he was weary, hungry and homesick. “I’ve got less now, I guess. 
My! It’s getting dusk. I must find something to eat, and a place 
to sleep.” 

He commenced to whistle, to keep up his spirits. Immediately 
he felt better; and threw back his head, jauntily cocked his hat 
over one eye, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and swaggered 
along — striving to make himself believe that he was very brave and 
cheerful. 

But of a sudden he stopped stock still in his tracks and slowly 
withdrew his right hand from his pocket. Between thumb and 
finger he held another penny. 

“Well, if that don’t beat everything!” he gasped. “I thought I 
threw that penny away; I did throw it away, surely. Maybe I’m 


23 


IVitch Crow 


mistaken, though; that old Witch-Crow has muddled me up so. 
Well, ril throw it away this time, all right. There!’’ 

He flung the coin into an adjoining field. Then, slowly and 
cautiously, he again explored the depths of his right hand pocket — 
and brought forth another penny. 

“Gee!” he ejaculated explosively. “Well, I’ll try it again. 
Here goes!” 

The third coin quickly followed the second — scaring a quail 
from its nest and sending it whirring away in the gathering dusk. 

“I’ve heard of fellows having money to throw at the birds,” Bar- 
ney giggled. “I guess I must be one of those chaps. Here’s an- 
other penny — and there it goes; and here’s another one — and there 
it goes. Every time I throw away one, there’s another in my pocket 
— and always in the pocket the Witch-Crow dropped the first one 
into. Now I know what she meant by saying I’d never have less 
than a penny. But what did she mean by saying I’d never have 
more? I suppose she meant that just one penny at a time would 
come into my pocket. That’s it. She couldn’t mean anything else ; 
because I might find money, or earn it. Then I’d have more than 
a penny, of course. What a silly joke to play on a fellow! No- 
body but a witch would do such a thing. I never did take much 
stock in witches; and I don’t take any now. Old White Feather! 
That’s what I’ll call her — the mean old thing; I don’t care how 


24 


and Barney Bylow 

disrespectful it is. Just because I said I’d like always to have money 
in my pocket, no matter how much I might spend, she played this 
mean trick on me. But it’s getting dark; I must hurry on and 
find supper and bed somewhere.” 

He meant to stop at the next farmhouse and ask for food and 
shelter; but the house and surroundings, in the gathering darkness, 
looked gloomy and uninviting. So he slipped past silently. From 
a wayside tree he procured a few ill-flavored apples, and munched 
them as he went along. At the next house he stopped and opened the 
gate leading into the yard. A great shaggy dog barked and growled 
threateningly at him. Barney shut the gate with a bang and hur- 
ried on. At the third place he tried, the farmer and his wife were 
noisily quarreling, and the children were crying. Barney listened a 
moment at the open door, then slipped away in the darkness. At 
last, worn out and thoroughly discouraged, he crept into a barn, 
climbed the ladder to the mow, and cuddled down in the sweet new 
hay. Quickly he fell into a deep sleep of utter exhaustion, his head 
upon his arm and his cheeks wet with tears. 

In the after part of the night a storm came up. The lightning 
flashed wickedly; the thunder boomed and crashed; the rain fell 
in torrents. The uproar wakened Barney and frightened him, but 
he was so tired and sleepy that he immediately fell asleep again. 

The sun was an hour high when Barney crept from his couch 


25 


JVitch Crow 


and emerged from the barn. The landscape had had a refreshing 
bath, and looked green and beautiful, and the birds were singing and 
chirping cheerily. Barney’s fears and homesickness had gone with 
the night, his courage had returned; but he was hungry — so hungry. 

“Fm going to try at this house for something to eat,” he com- 
muned with himself. “Fm almost famished.” 

He washed his hands and face in the cistern-trough at the cor- 
ner of the barn, combed his tousled hair with his fingers, and stood 
thinking. 

“What if they ask me to pay for my breakfast — what’ll I do?” 
he thought. “Oh, I know! Every time I take a penny from my 
pocket, there was another one there, so Fll just count out a lot of them 
and have them ready.” 

He put his right hand into his pocket, brought out the penny 
he found there, and placed it in his left palm. Quickly he again 
sent his hand fishing for another coin; but it came forth empty. 

“Why, there’s. no penny in my pocket this time!” he exclaimed 
aloud. “What does that mean? Oh, I see! ‘You’ll never have 
more’; and Fd be having more, if I had one in my hand and one 
in my pocket. Well, Fll lay this one on the curb of the cistern, and 
see how that’ll work.” 

He did so, and found another penny in his pocket. He con- 


26 


and Barney Bylow 

tinued to extract them and lay them one by one on the cistern curb. 
When he had twenty or more, he said : 

“That’s enough to pay for a breakfast, I suppose. I’ll put them 
in my left pocket, and have them ready.” 

He tried to gather up the row of coins; but the first he touched 
disappeared before his eyes — melted into thin air, as it seemed — 
and was gone. 

“Well, I’ll — be — doggoned!” Barney muttered under his breath. 

He was perplexed — astounded. After momentary hesitation 
and thought, he tried again, and kept on trying. One by one the 
pennies as he touched them melted into nothingness. 

“Pshaw!” he grumbled. “I don’t like to have such a mean old 
witch-trick played on me. I wonder if it’ll be the same with any 
other money I get — melt out of my fingers as soon as I touch it, 
like a snowflake. If that’s the way the thing’s going to do. I’ll never 
have more than a penny, sure enough — no matter if I work my hands 
ofif; no matter if I inherit a fortune. I think it’s mean — mean as 
dirt!” 

Then, in spite of his irritation, he laughed. 

“Gee! Wouldn’t I make a great cashier in a bank? I’d break 
the concern in a week.” 

Sobering, he went on musingly: “But breakfast I must have, 
and right away; and I’m going to this house to get it. If they ask 


27 


IVitch Crow 


me for pay, I’ll have to give them a cent at a time. Maybe they’ll 
think me crazy, a^id set the dog on me — I don’t know.” 

He crossed the road to the farmhouse, went around to the 
kitchen, and timidly knocked upon the half-open door. 

“Good mornin’,” said the motherly woman who appeared in the 
doorway. “What are you doin’ so far away from home so early 
in the mornin’?” 

“How do you know I’m far away from home?” Barney returned, 
wondering how the woman guessed the truth so quickly and ex- 
actly. 

“W’y,” she answered, smiling, “that’s easy enough. I know all 
the boys for several miles around, and you don’t belong in this neigh- 
borhood. You slept in our barn-mow last night, didn’t you?” 

“Y-e-s,” the boy admitted, still more surprised. “But how did 
you know that?” 

The woman laughed good-naturedly. 

“There’s hayseed upon your clothes,” she said; “then I saw you 
washin’ at the cisfern-trough. You’ve run away from home, too; 
nobody would be away from home, dressed as you are, unless he’d 
run away. And you didn’t have any supper — you look hollow and 
weak — and you want your breakfast.” 

“That’s what I do!” Barney assented heartily. 

Again the woman laughed; and the boy smiled in sympathy. 

28 


and Barney Bylow 


“Well, we had breakfast 
by lamp-light,” she went on; 
“the men folks have been off to 
the fields an hour or more. I 
can’t stop my work to get you 
a warm meal — you ought to 
have got up sooner; but I can 
give you a bowl of bread and 
milk.” 

“Oh, anything — just any- 
thing’ll do!” Barney hastened 
to say. And he meant it; he 
felt that he was famishing. 

The woman set her arms 
akimbo and' looked at the 
lad keenly. Once more she 
laughed, her fat sides shaking. 

“You’re not half as high- 
and-mighty about your break- 
fast this mornin’,” she re- 
marked, “as you were about 
your meals at home; you’re 
eatin’ humble pie. Well, it’ll 



IVitch Crow 


do you good; you’ll know more of the world and its ways by the 
time you get ready to go back to your father and mother. Will you 
come into the kitchen to eat your bread and milk, or shall I bring it 
out to you?” 

“I’ll sit here on the step, if you please,” Barney made reply. 
The woman brought out a large bowl of bread and milk, and re- 
turned to her duties indoors. The boy silently ate his repast. Then 
he arose and presented himself at the door, with spoon and empty 
bowl. 

“Will you have some more?” the woman inquired, taking the 
articles from his hands. 

“No, thank you, ma’am,” he replied. “I’ve had plenty; and I’m 
much obliged.” 

“That’s all right,” smiled the woman. “Now let me give you 
a little advice, to help digest your breakfast: you’d better turn right 
around and go back to your parents.” 

Barney shook his head. 

“Yes, you had,” the woman insisted. “You haven’t hardly any 
clothes — and no money, of course; and you won’t find everybody as 
obligin’ as I’ve been. You’d better go back home. What are you 
going to do without money? You — ” 

“But I’ve got money,” Barney interrupted her. “I can pay 
you for my breakfast, if you want me to.” 


30 


and Barney Bylow 

“You’ve got money?” the woman cried sharply, a ring of sus- 
picion in her voice. “Where did you get it? Let me see how much 
you have.” 

Barney drew a penny from his pocket and held it up between 
thumb and finger. 

“Is that all you have?” she asked. 

“Yes — no,” Barney stammered, “that is — I — I — ” 

“Well, speak out, and tell the truth,” she commanded. 

“I — I don’t know whether it’s all I’ve got, or not.’^' 

“You don’t know?” — in evident perplexity. 

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “I know it’s all I’ve got now; but 
you take this penny, and maybe I’ll find another one in my pocket.” 

“W’y — w’y, I can’t understand what you mean,” she exclaimed, 
completely mystified. 

But she took the coin, and the boy immediately brought forth 
another and placed it in her outstretched palm — and another, and 
another. 

“Why don’t you hand them all out at once?” she asked, puzzled 
and irritated. 

“Because there’s only one at a time in my pocket.” 

“Only one at a time in your pocket!” she gasped in amazement. 
“What do you mean? Explain yourself.” 

“I can’t explain,” Barney pouted. ^‘I don’t understand the 


31 


M^itch Crow 


thing myself. There’s never more than one penny at a time in my 
pocket; when I take that out, there’s another one there. An old 
crow, or witch, or crow-witch, or witch-crow — or something of the 
kind, blessed a penny, or cursed it — or something like that — and gave 
it to me; and now I can never have more than a penny, and I can 
never have less. You keep what I’ve given you; for if I take them 
they’ll all melt away to nothing.” 

The woman stood and stared — first at the boy, then at the money 
in her hand. After a little, she smiled pityingly and said: 

“You poor boy! I don’t know what ails you ; but you’re awfully 
wrong in your head some way — talking about crows and witches, and 
blessin’s and curses. Come in here, and lie down and rest. I’ll 
keep you here till the men folks come to dinner. Then we’ll send 
you back to your people, if we can find them; if not, we’ll send you 
to an asylum, to get well. Come on in. But what’s your name? 
You’d better tell me right now, before you forget it; folks goin’ crazy 
are liable to forget their names. What is yours?” 

Barney began to back off, without making answer, a startled ex- 
pression upon his freckled face, and fear quickening his pulses. 

“Here — none of that!” the woman cried, making a grab at him. 

But he nimbly eluded her grasp, dodged around the corner of 
the house, and was off like a shot up the hot highway. And he did 
not pause to draw breath until he was several hundred yards from 
the premises. 


32 


and Barney Bylow 

- “ril bet I don’t try to make any more explanations,” he mused as 
he journeyed onward. “That woman thought me crazy; and that’s 
what anybody else would think. My! but I had a narrow escape!” 

Just before noon he came to the summit of a high ridge over- 
looking a broad river valley; and there at his feet, it appeared, lay 
the city he sought. 



33 


H^itch Crow 


Chapter IV 

^^^ARNEY descended to the valley; and was in the suburbs of the 
city. Along the residence streets he sauntered, admiring the 
beautiful flower-beds and velvety lawns, and marveling at the palatial 
residences. He was hungry; but he could not summon up courage 
to call at any of the fine houses and ask for food. Sidewalks and 
pavements were hot to his bruised and tired feet, and soon he found 
himself picking his way from one shady spot to another, and limp- 
ing painfully. At last he seated himself upon a bench in a little 
park and drowsed and nodded — lulled by the tinkle of a sparkling 
fountain near at hand. 

It was mid-afternoon when he finally roused himself and again 
set ofif toward the heart of the city. He had no well-defined pur- 
pose in mind. He was an alien in an alien land, and he had no 
idea what he was going to do, or what was to become of him. 

An hour’s steady walking brought him into the business section 
of the great town. Trolley cars were whizzing and buzzing along 
their shining tracks; vans, cabs and all sorts of lighter vehicles were 
rumbling and jolting over the cobble-stones. A steady stream of 
people was flowing along the sidewalks and trickling in and out 


34 



and Barney Bylow 

of the big buildings; and everything was hustle and bustle, and 
hurry and flurry. The crowd seemed mad with desire to go some- 
where or to do something, but Barney could not make out what 
it was all about. At any rate, he decided the excitement was not 
occasioned by his advent, for no one gave him the least attention. 

He had been in the city two or three times before, and now 
he recognized a few familiar landmarks. But all the rest was con- 
fusion — chaos absolute — and the country lad felt that he was an 
intruder in the stirring hive, and the thought overwhelmed him 
with sickening fear and dread. 

He sought to get away from the rush and clamor. Down a side 
street he went, on and on, out of the congested quarter. When he 
had escaped from the mad whirlpool and was in quieter waters, fig- 
uratively speaking, he felt more sane, and his courage in a measure 
returned. 

Just across the street he saw a restaurant; and he went over and 
stood in front of the open door, looking in. It was a grand place 
with tile floor and rich furnishings. The sight of food — the smell 
of it — tantalized the boy, but he ruefully regarded his bare, brown 
feet and soiled, countrified clothes and moved slowly away. 

On the next corner was a fruit-stand; and there he stopped. 

<< How— how much are those oranges?” he asked hesitatingly. 


35 


IVitch Crow 


“Five-a cent-a,” the Italian replied, smiling and rubbing his 
hands. 

“Fll take one,” said Barney, and he counted out five pennies, one 
at a time. 



^‘You give-a penny one-a time,” the fruit vender laughed; ‘‘you 
no like-a let-a loose money. What-a more?” 

“How much are those bananas?” 

“Five-a cent-a.” 

“Apiece?” Barney inquired, his native shrewdness prompting 
the question. 

36 


and Barney Bylow 

“No — no!” the Italian hastened to say. “Five-a cent-a two.” 

The swarthy-skinned fellow was afraid he was going to miss a 

sale. 

Barney decided to take two, and again laid out five pennies. 

“You got-a heap-a penny/’ the foreigner chuckled; “maybe you 
rob-a de bank.” 

Barney did not appreciate the man’s sally of wit; and silently 
moved away, peeling and eating his fruit as he went. All the after- 
noon he sauntered about, from one street to another, regaling him- 
self with sweetmeats — and drenching his stomach with soda-water 
and ginger-beer. When he was full to repletion, he dropped down 
upon the steps of a public building, heaved a deep sigh of weariness 
— if not of complete satisfaction and content — and murmured: 

“Well, this isn’t so bad, after all. I’ve got money to buy some 
of the things I’ve always wanted, anyhow. I guess I can’t make 
much complaint against old White Feather. I don’t need any sup- 
per, that’s sure; I’m full and running over. My! haven’t I eaten a 
lot of stuff! I wonder if it’ll make me sick. But I ought to have 
a place to sleep. Of course it’s warm enough to lie out-doors; but I 
don’t like to do it. I can’t, in this big place — I’m afraid! I’ll have 
to try some of the hotels; I don’t know where else to go. But I 
don’t suppose they’ll take me in; I’ve heard father say they won’t 
keep anybody that hasn’t baggage of some kind. And I haven’t 


37 


JVitch Crow 


any duds on my back, hardly, let alone having a trunk or valise. 
I don’t know what to do.” 

Elbows upon knees and chin in palms, he sat meditating. Peo- 
ple passed to and fro on the sidewalk and up and down the stone 
steps on which the puzzled urchin sat; but they gave him no at- 
tention, and he was barely aware of their presence. He was think- 
ing of many things — but of home, principally. 

A stylishly dressed young lady in a pony phaeton drew up to 
the curb. Barney roused himself and observed her. She sprang 
nimbly to the ground and tripped across the sidewalk to the steps. 
But the ponies began to stamp and paw restlessly, and she paused. 

Turning to Barney and smiling sweetly, she said: 

“Will you mind them for me? I’ll be gone but a few minutes.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Barney replied, rising with what alacrity his 
full stomach and stiffened limbs would permit, and moving to the 
ponies’ heads. 

True to her promise, the young lady was gone but a short time. 
On her return she thanked the lad and proffered him a quarter. 

“I — I don’t want to take it,” he murmured, thrown into con- 
fusion by her gracious manner and winsome smile. 

“What — you don’t want to take it?” she laughed. “You don’t 
belong in the city, then.” 

“No, ma’am; I’m from the country.” 


38 


and Barney Bylow 

“I thought so,” she smiled. “Well, take the money; you’ve 
earned it.” 

Barney, rather reluctantly, for he felt it was too much for so 
small a service, put out his hand to receive the coin, but no sooner 
did it touch his fingers than it disappeared. 

The boy stood stupidly staring at his calloused palm, and the 
young lady stood staring at the boy. 

“Did you drop it?” she asked. 

Barney continued to stare blankly at his hand, and made no 
reply. 

“Did you drop the money — the quarter?” she repeated, touch- 
ing his arm to rouse him. 

“No, I — I don’t think I did,” he blundered. 

“You don’t think you did?” — In evident surprise and wonder- 
ment. — “Don’t you know whether you dropped it?” 

“No, I don’t!!” Barney muttered sullenly. 

“If you didn’t drop it, what became of it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Look here!” she cried, giving him a little shake. “You’re 
not a stupid boy — a dunce. If you didn’t drop that quarter I gave 
you, where is it? Are you trying to play a trick upon me — to 
get me to give you another?” 


39 


JVitch Crow 


“No, Fm not!” Barney answered indignantly, looking her 
squarely in the face. 

The young lady silently searched his countenance for a few 
moments, then she remarked: 

“Well, it’s very strange — very strange, indeed. I believe you’re 
honest — I believe you’re telling me the truth. You must have 
dropped the coin. It didn’t fall into your pocket, or lodge in the 
folds of your clothing?” 

Barney shook his head, with difficulty repressing a smile at 
her earnest perplexity. 

“Then ;t’s on the ground,” she said. “Let’s look for it.” 

She began to move about, slightly stooping and scanning the 
pavement at her feet. Barney joined her in the hunt, though he 
felt it was useless. The coin was not to be found. 

“Well,” she murmured at last, giving up the search, “it’s only 
a quarter — and T don’t care for the money; but I would like to 
know where it went.” 

“So would T!” Barne^^ whispered under his breath. 

“However,” the voung lady continued, thrusting her gloved 
fingers into her purse, “here’s another quarter for you.” 

“I won’t take it.” the boy said sturdily. 

“You won’t?” — in complete astonishment. 

“No, ma’am, I won’t.” 


40 


and Barney Bylow 

“Why?” she inquired. 

Barney was silent. 

“Why won’t you take it — because I questioned your honesty? 
Is that it?” 

Barney shook his head. 

“Well, you’re an odd boy, and an honest one; I know it now. 
But tell me why you won’t take this quarter. Why won’t you?” 

“You’ve paid me once — that’s reason enough,” Barney answered. 

“But you haven’t got the quarter I gave you, so it can do you 
no good.” 

“Neither would this one do me any good,” Barney replied de* 
jectedly. 

“Would you lose it, too?” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

“Do you lose all the money you get?” she inquired with keen 
interest. 

“I — I guess I lose it; something becomes of it, anyhow — most 
of it.” 

“That’s odd, and you’re odd,” she said musingly, looking him 
over. “But I must be going. You’re a stranger in a big city, and 
you may have a hard time to make your way. Here’s my card. 
If the time ever comes that I can help you in any way, let me 
know. You’ll find work, if you hunt for it, and you’ll succeed. 


41 


JVitch Crow 


if you deserve to. Treasure as precious the native honesty that 
is yours. Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye,” he returned, absent-mindedly dropping the bit of 
pasteboard into his pocket. 

The young lady climbed into her conveyance and drove away, 
nodding and smiling over her shoulder as she went, and Barney 
sauntered from the spot, muttering disconsolately: 

“That settles it! Old White Feather has fixed me, sure. I 
thought maybe other money would stick to my fingers; but Fm 
never to have more than a penny — that’s plain. And the young 
lady thought me so honest; and I didn’t dare to explain. I’m in 
a pretty fix! What am I to do?” 

He tramped the streets until far into the night, wretched and 
forlorn, and wishing sincerely that he was back at home. Night 
and loneliness are conducive to homesickness and horrors, as light 
and company are conducive to carelessness and courage; and Bar- 
ney was more lonely in the crowded mart than he would have 
been in the trackless woods. He was afraid to ask for lodging, 
yet afraid to sleep out-of-doors. So he tramped and tramped until 
almost exhausted, occasionally stopping to gaze into a store window 
or to snatch a few minutes’ rest upon a convenient curb or dark 
stairway. 

It was nearing midnight. The streets were practically de- 


42 


and Barney Bylow 

serted; all places of business, excepting hotels and saloons, were 
closed. The trolley cars stopped running. The lonesome screech 
of an incoming or outgoing train echoed weirdly; all other of the 
clamorous sounds of day were hushed. Barney grew terrorized — 
he could stand the darkness and loneliness no longer. His lesser 
fears yielded to his greater, and he entered the open door of a 
great hotel, and stood blinking in the welcome light. 

Several well-dressed men were sitting in the hotel lobby, smok- 
ing and chatting, and they looked up at the boy’s entrance. The 
night porter came forward and gruffly demanded: 

“What do you want in here, youngster?” 

“I want to — to get a — a room and bed,” Barney replied faintly, 
trembling so that he could hardly speak. 

The men winked at one another and smiled. 

“A room and bed?” the porter gasped, astounded. 

“Y-e-s — yes, sir,” Barney answered. 

“Holee smoke!” ejaculated the porter. 

Then he guffawed; and the guests of the hostelry joined him. 
Barney stood embarrassed, twirling his disreputable straw hat in 
his hands— and undecided whether to stand his ground or turn and 
flee into the night. 

Attracted by the outburst of merriment, several more men 
drifted into the lobby from the bar in the rear, and the night clerk 


43 


Witch Crow 


came forward. He was a sallow, skinny man with sickly mustache 
and weakly voice. 

‘‘What's the joke, fellows?” he squeaked. “Tell me; I want 
to laugh, too.” 

“Why,” the porter explained facetiously, “this is Lord Alger- 
non Frecklemug of Punkintown; and he wants a suite of rooms 
and a bath.'' 

Then all laughed and slapped their thighs, and began to crowd 
around the lad, to have further sport at his expense. Barney’s nature 
was simplicity itself; but instantly he understood their designs, and 
his Irish- American blood began to simmer. 

“You needn't think yourselves so smart!” he cried hotly, his 
small fists clenched hard, his face crimson, and tears in his eyes. 
“I haven't done any of you any harm. I just came in here and 
asked for a place to sleep, because I didn’t know where else to go 
or what else to do. I expected to be ordered out; but I didn’t 
expect gentlemen to make fun of me. You ought to be ashamed 
of yourselves; you were boys once, and — and — ” 

His voice quavered and broke and his features twitched; but 
he still stood defiantly erect, his moist eyes flashing. 

The weakly-voiced clerk giggled a signal for another outburst 
of merriment, but somehow it didn’t come. One or two men chuck- 
led half apologetically and a few smiled half sympathetically, but 


44 


and Barney Bylow 

nobody laughed. Then a broad-shouldered young man with 
straight, muscular limbs stepped to Barney’s side and kindly laid 
a hand upon the boy^s shoulder. 

“I’m on the side of the boy,” he said quietly; “it is a dirty 
shame to make fun of him. If you fellows desire to make sport 
of anyone, try it on me for taking up his defense. I’ll do my best 
to make it interesting for you. This boy came in here hunting 
a place to sleep. He’s a stranger to city ways — that’s plain to be 
seen; and he came here because he didn’t know where else to go 
— because he was frightened at the loneliness and darkness of the 
streets. He made his request like a little man; he wasn’t saucy 
— he didn’t get gay. And it is ungentlemanly to make sport of him. 
That’s all I have to say; and any of you can take exceptions to my 
words, if you care to. 

No one breathed a syllable in reply, but all looked very sol- 
emn, and a few frankly ashamed. 

The young man turned to the clerk and said: 

“Give this little chap a bed, and I’ll pay for it.” 

“I can’t do that, you know,” the clerk objected, assuming a 
boldness and firmness he did not at all feel in the presence of the 
athletic young man ; “it’s contrary to the rules of the house.” 

“Of course I wouldn’t have you break any of the rules of this 
blessed caravansary,” the young athlete returned, his lip slightly 


45 


IVitch Crow 


curled. “But this boy came up from the country, as I did; he’s 
homesick and wretched, as I was; he can’t find a place to stay, 
as I couldn’t. Ten years from now, though, he’ll be traveling for 
some big firm — more than likely — and then you’ll break your neck 
in an effort to please him — to get him to stop with you. It’s the 
way of the world. Well, if you won’t let him stay here, tell me 
a place where I can send him.” 

“He might try the Arcade,” the clerk replied humbly; “it’s 
a kind of general lodging-house.” 

“Where is it?” the young man inquired briskly, consulting his 
watch. 

“Three squares north, and two east.” 

“You hear that?” the young man said, turning to Barney. 
“Here! Take this dollar and run over there. I’d go with you 
and see that you get in, but my train’s almost due — and I must be 
off to the station. Take this and skedaddle.” 

But Barney shook his head and sidled toward the door. 

“Won’t you take it?” urged the young man. 

“No, sir,” the boy answered, edging farther tow^ard the open air. 

“Why?” the young man pursued. 

Barney made no reply but kept up his retreat toward the open 
door. 

The young man stopped following the lad, and said with a smile r 


46 


and Barney Bylow 

•Tou’re too independent to accept what you haven’t earned, 
eh? Well, so was I.” This was touching Barney in a tender spot, 
and he winced. Had he not come to the city to get money with- 
out earning it? “But I must grab my grips and be off. Keep 
a stiff upper lip, no matter what happens. Good luck to you — 
and so long.” 

The young man man whirled and s_trode toward the rear of 
the lobby, and Barney slouched out into the night again. And as 
he went slinking along the walls of the tall buildings and gazing 
fearsomely into the enveloping gloom, he murmured brokenly, a 
sob in his throat: 

“He thought me honest — that I wouldn’t take the dollar be- 
cause I hadn’t earned it — that’s what hurts. And she thought 
me honest.” — meaning the young lady who had proffered him a 
second quarter. “Oh, I’m so miserable I almost wish I was dead!” 

“Here!” said a gruff voice in the boy’s ear, startling him and 
rudely rousing him from his introspection. “What are you doing 
on the streets this time of night?” 

And a big policeman emerged from the shadows and took him 
by the arm. 

“I’m on the streets because I’ve no place else to go,” Barney 
answered truthfully. He had a wholesome respect for the author- 
ity invested in a police uniform. 


47 


IVitch Crow 


“In that case,” remarked the officer, taking a square look at 
the boy, “I’ll have to escort you down to the city prison and hand 
you over to the matron. You’ll be sure of bed and breakfast there. 
Come along.” 

“Oh, please — please don’t!” Barney pleaded, terrorized at the 
bare thought of going to prison. “If you lock me up. I’ll just die!” 

The big, red-faced policeman laughed, but it was a kindly 
laugh. Then he said: 

“You must get off the streets, then, if I don’t run you in.” 

“I will — I will!” Barney promised with alacrity. 

The big policeman released him, and he sped around the cor- 
ner, into an alley. There he found himself in front of the open 
door of a livery-barn, and he sneaked in unobserved and tumbled 
down upon a pile of straw in a vacant stall. 

And in his troubled sleep he muttered: 

“Yes — yes! I’ll get off the streets! Don’t lock me up — please 
don’t! I’ll get off — off — off the earth, if you want me to!” 



48 


and Barney Bylow 


Chapter V 

^^^ARNEY left the livery-barn quite early next morning — 
urgently propelled by a hostler with a piece of strap in 
his hand. Heavy-eyed and but half awake, the lad hardly realized 
what was happening till he was out in the alley and alone. Then 



49 



IVitch Crow 


of a sudden he became conscious of the smarts occasioned by the 
playing of the strap about his bare legs, and he stooped and feel- 
ingly rubbed his injured members. 

“There’s lots of mean people in a city, I guess,” he grumbled, 
fetching a yawn and shivering as the damp of the gray morning 
penetrated his scant attire. “What was the use of that fellow using 
a strap on me? I wasn’t hurting anything, sleeping on that bundle 
of straw. It seems that I’m going to have a tough time of it, sure 
enough.” 

He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and sauntered out 
upon the street. Few people were abroad, but the trolley cars 
were running, factory whistles were screeching — the hive of in- 
dustry was beginning to buzz. Barney again shivered, hunched 
his shoulders and went pattering along the thoroughfare, no des- 
tination in mind, no object in view. His limbs were stiff and sore; 
his feet were tender; every muscle in his body ached. His stomach 
was afflicted with a gnawing emptiness, but the thought of sweet- 
meats was nauseating. 

“I need a warm breakfast,” he determined; “I haven’t had any- 
thing warm to eat since I left home. But how am I going to get 
it? Well, I’ll have to depend upon myself, I reckon; nobody else’ll 
help me, that’s sure. I’ll just have to make the best of my one- 


and Barney Bylow 

sided bargain with old White Feather; but it looks to me like it 
was going to be a mighty poor best.” 

His aimless footsteps brought him to a cheap restaurant with 
an obscure, narrow entrance. He stooped and peeped into the 
dusky interior. A rough-looking man jostled past him, strode 
through the doorway, and seated himself at one of the small tables. 
Barney quickly and quietly followed the man and took a seat at 
the same table. 

A waiter came forward to take their orders. 

“What will you have this morning, Mr. Gross?” he asked, ad- 
dressing the man at the table. 

“Hot rolls, fried potatoes, and a cup of coffee,” Mr. Gross 
replied. 

“I’ll take the same,” Barney volunteered. 

“This boy with you, Mr. Gross?” the waiter questioned, nod- 
ding toward Barney. 

“No,” Mr. Gross grunted laconically, his eyes fixed upon the 
tablecloth, upon which he was drawing geometric designs with 
his thumb nail. 

The waiter gave Barney a searching look of suspicion, evidently 
questioning the lad’s ability to pay, then turned and retreated to 
the rear. Barney was gravely concerned as to the outcome of his 
rash venture, but he kept his seat and was duly alert for what ill 


IVitch Crow 


might threaten him. However, the waiter filled the two orders 
and made no further remarks. 

Barney and his companion, the morose Mr. Gross, ate in silence. 
Though there was a sense of dread of impending misadventure 
weighing upon him, the boy enjoyed his meal. The waiter again 
came to the table and dropped a small ticket at each plate. Bar- 
ney had eaten at a restaurant once before, in company with his 
father, so now he knew the purpose of the bit of pink pasteboard. 

“Twenty-five cents,” he mumbled, his mouth full of food. “I 
s’pect they’ll get tired of waiting while I count out that many pen- 
nies, one at a time, but they’ll have to wait — or do without their 
pay.” 

He glanced across the table at his companion’s ticket; it was 
marked “30c.” 

“I don’t understand this thing,” the boy mused; “we both got 
the same.” 

Mr. Gross arose from the table, picked up the ticket and ap- 
proached the cashier’s desk; Barney followed him. Mr. Gross and 
the cashier got into an altercation — the former claiming that his 
ticket called for five cents more than his breakfast amounted to, 
and the latter maintaining that he had nothing to do with that — 
and the waiter was called up to adjust matters. The delay thus 


52 


and Barney Bylow 

occasioned enabled Barney to pile upon the desk the twenty-five 
pennies needful to settle his bill. 

The cashier picked up the boy’s ticket, glanced at the pile of 
pennies, and demanded sharply: 

“Where did you get those?” 

“In my pocket,” Barney answered innocently. 

“Don’t get gay, now!” the cashier snapped. 

“Well, I did get them in my pocket — or out of my pocket — 
I don’t know which I ought to say.” 

And Barney grinned good-naturedly; his breakfast had dis- 
pelled his gloomy thoughts and forebodings. 

The cashier eyed him keenly for a moment; then he said: 
“Where did you get those pennies, before you got them in 
your pocket?” 

“I didn’t get them anywhere,”” Barney replied. 

“Oh, come off!” sneered the cashier. 

“I didn’t,” the lad insisted. 

“Why, you put them into your pocket, didn’t you?” 

“No, sir.” 

“You didn’t?” — in great surprise. 

“No, sir; I didn’t.” 

“Well, if you didn’t, who did?” 

“I don’t know.” 


53 


IVitch Crow 


“You don’t know?” 

Barney shook his head, and added in words: “I don’t know 
how they got into my pocket — 1 don’t know whether anybody put 
them in there.” 

The cashier gasped and stared. It was evident he considered 
the boy a glib but unreasoning young liar. 

“Well, we have no use for the pennies,” he remarked at last. 

“It’s all the money I’ve got,” Barney returned. 

The cashier irritably raked the pennies into his palm and drop- - 
ped them into the till. Then he said: 

“Now you get out of here, and stay out. There’s been a num- 
ber of tills tapped and slot-machines broken open lately, and the 
lot of pennies you have and the crooked tale you tell makes me 
suspicious of you. Don’t you come in here any more.” 

Barney did not tarry to attempt to clear himself of the un- 
just imputation; he was glad enough to escape without further 
parley, knowing well he could make no explanation that would be 
believed. 

“This thing’s going to get me into a peck of trouble — I can 
see that,” he muttered as he shuffled along the street. “But what 
else can I do? I’d hunt for work — yes, I would! — if it would do 
any good. But what use would it be to work and get nothing for 
it? The money would melt right out of my fingers. Oh, I wish I 


54 


and Barney Bylow 

could go to work and earn money! I know I could find a job in 
a big place like this. But there’s no use to wish — no use to think 
about work. All I can do is to do as I am doing, even if they 
put me in jail for it. Wouldn’t I like to wring old White Feather’s 
neck! And I’ve got to have some new clothes pretty soon — a new 
hat, anyhow; this old thing’s about ready to drop to pieces. Well, 
I might as well go and try to buy one right now; waiting won’t 
make the job any easier.” 

Seeing a number of cheap wool hats displayed in front of a 
store, he stopped and inquired the price. 

“Fifty cents apiece,” snapped the young salesman, who stood 
upon the step twirling the brush with which he had been dusting 
the articles displayed. 

Barney doffed his own dilapidated headgear and tried on one 
hat after another. 

“Those are for men,” the salesman explained ; “you won’t find 
one to fit you. Come inside and I’ll sell you a good one — a boy’s hat.” 

“For how much?” Barney inquired. 

“One dollar.” 

“Too much,” Barney whispered to himself. 

And he continued to try and retry the hats before him. The 
thought of having to fish one hundred separate coins from his pocket, 
with the eye of the salesman fixed upon him, was dreadful. 


55 


JVitch Crow 


Presently the little fellow selected a hat he thought would do, 
although it rested snugly upon his ears when he put it on, and said: 
“I’ll take this one.” 

The salesman smiled pityingly, but he took the hat from the 
boy’s hand and retreated to the interior. Barney followed, and 
while the salesman was wrapping up the article, the boy indus- 
triously and rapidly counted out the pennies necessary to the pur- 
chase. 

“There you are,” remarked the salesman, pushing the package 
toward the purchaser. 

“And there’s your money,” Barney returned, pointing toward 
the pile of brazen coins. 

“Whew!” whistled the salesman, his eyes very wide. “All in 
pennies, eh? Say, young man! Where — where — ” 

And he stopped speaking and stared hard at the urchin. Bar- 
ney caught up his purchase and made for the door. 

“Hold on — wait a moment!” the salesman cried. 

But Barney slid out the door, and as he crossed the street he 
heard the salesman excitedly calling and shouting some one’s name. 

The lad was so pleased, so elated, over his first attempt to ob- 
tain new wearing apparel that a spirit of foolhardiness seized him; 
and immediately he determined upon a second venture. 

A short distance from the scene of his first triumph, he entered 


56 


and Barney Bylow 

another shop and asked for a shirt. Here a pretty young woman 
waited upon him. Barney did not know the size of the garment 
he required, but the pretty young woman thought she knew — after 
carefully looking him over — and began searching for it. Barney 
industriously plied his nimble fingers, and just as the saleswoman 
shoved the wrapped article toward him, he laid the last penny req- 
uisite upon the counter. 

Then a startling thing happened. The young woman took a 
hasty look at the pile of pennies and, raising her voice to a shrill 
screech, called : 

“Here’s one of them now, Mr. Bristow! Come this way — 
quick!” 

Barney heard quick footsteps and saw several men approaching 
from the rear of the room. He snatched up his purchases, tucked 
one under each arm, and made rapidly for the open air. 

“Stop him!” shrieked the young woman. 

“Head him off!” cried the men. 

Out the door and down the street sped Barney, a half-dozen 
persons in pursuit, all shouting and gesticulating. A number of 
other shopkeepers and clerks joined in the chase; a dog ran out of 
an alley and, nipping at the boy’s heels, barked vociferously. 

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” yelled the growing crowd. 

A cabman pulled his vehicle across the street to obstruct the 


57 


JVitch Crow 


fugitive’s flight, but Barney made a detour and was still far ahead 
of his pursuers. 

“Stop the till-tapper! Stop the penny-thief!” 

A tall policeman barred the lad’s path, swinging his club and 
commanding: “Halt! Stop! Stop!” 

But Barney slid under the upraised arm of the officer, wrig- 
gled free from the detaining hand that fell upon his shoulder, and 
shot into a shadowy passage between two tall buildings. This led 
him into a big warehouse. Among boxes, barrels, and crates he 
threaded his way and emerged upon another street. This he crossed, 
dashed through another alley, and came out upon a quiet thorough- 
fare where but few people were in sight. All sounds of pursuit 
had died out, but on and on he went, slowing his pace to avoid at- 
tracting undue attention. And he did not stop until he reached 
the suburbs, a region of vacant lots and tall board fences. 

Here he sought out an obscure spot, cast himself down in the 
grateful shade of a gnarled old apple tree and quickly fell asleep, 
completely worn out with his morning’s adventures. 

He awoke with the late afternoon sun shining full in his face. 
Slowly he got upon his feet, and stretched his limbs and yawned. 
In an adjacent grove of oak trees a flock of crows were raising a 
clamorous hubbub and flitting from one perch to another. Pres- 
ently a great owl emerged from the green of the bit of woodland, 

58 





“Stop Thief! Stop Thief!” 









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and Barney Bylow 

in slow and dignified retreat from its tormentors, who were swarm- 
ing in its wake, cawing uproariously. Leading the band of black 
marauders was the white-feather crow! 

“White Feather! White Feather!” Barney screamed lustily, 
forgetting in his excitement his need to remain unobserved, his dan- 
ger from those who were on the outlook for him. 

The white-feather crow left the flock following the owl, cir- 
cled a few times high above Barney’s head, and alighted upon the 
topmost bough of the old apple tree. There it sat, stretching its 
neck and impudently peering down at the boy. ^ 

“White Feather — you mean old thing!” Barney cried, provoked 
by the crow’s cool insolence. 

The uncanny bird opened wide its mouth, blinked and gur- 
gled, and rolled its head from side to side, like a person in a spasm 
of silent laughter. 

“Well, you are mean!” Barney sputtered angrily. “You ought 
to be ashamed, too, playing such a low-down trick upon a poor, 
innocent boy that never harmed you!” 

The white-feather fowl fluttered its plumage, beat its sides with 
its wings, rolled its eyes, and croaked: 

“Haw, haw haw! Pshaw! Pshaw! Bawrney Bylaw!” 

“Oh, you can laugh — I don’t care!” Barney whined, almost in 
tears. “But I’ll bet you wouldn’t laugh if somebody had played 


IVitch Crow 


such a trick on you — had got you in such a fix. I’ll bet you wouldn’t 
think it much fun to be chased and yelled at and called a thief.” 

The bird bobbed, cocked its head, and winked impertinently. 

‘‘Haw, haw, haw!” it chuckled. “Law, law, Bawrney Bylaw!” 

Perhaps it was thinking it had been chased and called a thief 
many a time; that every member of its family, almost, had been 
served in like manner. At any rate, it appeared to take a keen 
delight in the boy’s tale of discomfiture. 

“Well, I want you to get me out of this fix!” Barney cried 
pettishly. 

“Haw, haw, haw!” the eccentric crow cawed delightedly. 
“Naw! Naw! Bawrney Bylaw!” 

It laughed till it tumbled from its perch, and turned a sum- 
mersault in mid-air. But it caught itself before striking the ground, 
and set off after its companions who were mere specks on the smoky 
horizon. 

Barney sighed dolefully as he watched its departure. When 
it was out of sight, he picked up his bundles and made his way to 
a brook that ran through the bit of woodland near-by. There he 
stripped and took a bath in a clear pool. Then he cast aside his 
old hat and shirt and donned the new ones he had had so much 
trouble in purchasing, and set out to return to the heart of the city, 
choosing the less frequented streets to avoid observation. 


6o 


and Barney By low 


Chapter VI 

T EIGHT o’clock that evening Barney found himself down 
at the water front of the city — weary, hunted and hungry. 
Before him was the river and the shipping; behind him, the great 
town throbbing with life and restlessness; and around him, a chaos of 
moving vans, trucks and drays. At the wharves and docks lay 
great steamers loading and unloading — floating monsters with big 
black horns and dragon-like eyes, the one red and the other green 
— and out in mid-stream, a part of the enveloping gloom, were 
tugs and ferries, — other monsters — puffing, screeching and churning 
the inky water into sooty foam. A rampart of gloomy warehouses, 
tall and somber, guarded the shore, and huddled at its base were 
cheap shops and low saloons. 

Barney stood under a swinging, crackling arc-light and viewed 
the scene, shivering with nervousness, his ears filled with the din 
of it all, his heart filled with dread of he knew not what. Heavy 
vehicles creaked and rumbled; drivers whipped and swore. Steam- 
boat mates stormed and cursed, and strings of colored deckhands 
crooned eerie sing-songs as they streamed along stages and gang- 
planks. Donkey-engines chugged and snorted; ropes and pulleys 



6i 


IVitch Crow 


creaked and rattled; boxes, bar- 
rels and bales thumped and 
bumped, as they dropped upon 
oaken decks or shot swiftly into 
the yawning holds of great ves- 
sels. 

Down on one corner of a 
dock, in the full beam of a 
steamer’s searchlight, but out of 
the way of rolling trucks and 
shuffling roustabouts, a small 
group of street gamins were 
shaking pennies and laughing 
and chattering like a bunch of 
blackbirds. Barney was hun- 
gering for boyish companion- 
ship, starving for boyish fellow- 
ship ; and now he threw discre- 
tion to the winds, forgot that he 
was a hunted fugitive, and 
sauntered down and joined the 
group of urchins. 

“Hello, Rube!” one of 

62 





and Barney By low 

them cried gaily, backing out of the game and making a bow of 
mock humility to Barney. “Glad to see you. W’en did you get 
in, Rube?” 

“My name isn’t Rube,” Barney replied quietly, looking over 
his questioner’s bowed head at the boys hunkering upon the dock. 

“Aw, yes it is,” the street arab laughed, drawing himself erect. 
“All guys w’at comes from de country is Rubes. Come up to de 
city to make y’r fortune, I s’pose — all hayseeds does. Well, here’s 
y’r show,” striking an attitude and pointing at his kneeling com- 
panions. “You can make ’r lose a fortune dere in a very few minutes, 
as I knows to me sorrow. Dey cleaned me out o’ nineteen cents in no 
time; I’s bankrupt, an’ got to start life all over again. Ain’t you 
sorry fer me. Rube?” 

And the grimy-faced lad sniffled, wiped the back of his hand 
across his eyes, and made a pretense of weeping. 

“But I tell you my name isn’t Rube,” Barney returned, ignor- 
ing the other’s plea for sympathy; “it’s Barney — Barney Bylow.” 

“Aw, dat’s all right — all right!” the gamin chuckled. “It’s 
a good Irish name, too. Me name’s Mickey Marvel, an’ I’s as 
Irish as de ol’ sod itself. Shake.” 

The two shook hands, and Mickey continued : 

“Want to take a hand?” with a jerk of his thumb indicating 
the game in progress. “It’s great fun, an’ maybe you’ll win a pile.” 

63 


fVitch Crow 

“It’s gambling, isn’t it?” Barney objected. “I don’t wan’t to 
gamble.” 

Those in the game overheard the country boy’s remark, and 
tittered amusedly, but did not stop playing. 

“Naw, ’tain’t gamblin’,” Mickey hastened to explain; “it’s jes 
shakin’ pennies. Shootin’ craps is gamblin’. Got any pennies — 
want to try it?” 

Barney slowly shook his head. 

“It wouldn’t do me any good,” he remarked. 

“Wouldn’t do you any good?” Mickey exclaimed incredulously. 
“W’y, you might win — might win a lot.” 

“It wouldn’t do me any more good to win than to lose,” Bar- 
ney returned in a tone of deep dejection. 

“Listen to dat, fellers!” Mickey cried, turning to his com- 
panions. “Here’s a guy w’at says it wouldn’t do him no good to 
win a-shakin’ pennies. W’at do you t’ink o’ dat, now?” 

“He’s a millionaire, an’ don’t need de money,” one of the boys 
m a de!^ answer. 

Then all laughed. 

“Try it once,” Mickey persisted. 

Barney shook his head; then he asked shrewdly: 

“Why don’t you try it again?” 

“Didn’t I tell you dey’d cleaned me out?” Mickey snapped. 


64 



“Heli.0, Rube! W’en Did You Get In?’’ 




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and Barney Bylow 

giving an irritable hitch at the bootblack kit suspended from his 
shoulder. 

‘‘ril lend you some money,” Barney offered. 

“You will?” in a tone of delight. “How much you got?” 

“IVe got lots — of pennies.” 

“Dat’s de stuff!” Mickey cried in an ecstacy. “I’ll tell you 
w’at we’ll do; we’ll play pards. I’ll do de playin’ an’ you’ll be 
de banker. If we wins, we splits even; if we loses, I’ll pay you 
back half soon’s I get it. Is dat fair — does dat suit you?” 

“I don’t want any back, whether you win or lose,” Barney re- 
plied apathetically. 

“You don’t?” Mickey exclaimed in astonishment and admira- 
tion. And the other boys paused to listen. “Well, you must be 
a millionaire! You’s a dead-game sport, anyhow — dat’s sure. But 
come on. You’ll be me mascot, an’ I’ll jes clean dese fellers out 
in no time.” 

The game was played as follows: Each boy put up a penny, 
then each in turn took up the whole lot of coins, shook them be- 
tween his palms, and threw them upon the ground. The one throw- 
ing the most “heads” won all the pennies. Then all put up a cent 
each again, and thus the game went on. 

But as a mascot Barney for a time proved a rank failure, 
though he was a commendable success as a “banker.” Penny after 

65 


IVitch Crow 


penny he passed over to Mickey, who lost, and continued to lose 
stoically. However, the tide of fortune turned at last in favor of 
the two “pards,” and soon the Irish lad won back all he had lost, 
and nearly all belonging to his associates. 

“Here’s w’ere I quits de game,” he said decidedly, rising and 
jingling the money in his pocket. 

The other boys did not care to continue to play — with most of 
the money in Mickey’s possession, and he out of the contest — and 
stood about grumbling at their ill luck. 

Mickey was jubilant. 

“Didn’t I tell you we’d clean ’em up?” he cried gleefully, slap- 
ping Barney, who stood a passive spectator of his new-found chum’s 
good fortune, on the back. 

“I knowed I could do it in de end; I can alluz play better 
on borried money — dat’s a fack. But say!” — in boundless ad- 
miration — “You was cool — cool as an ol’ hand at de biz. Me a- 
losin’ an’ a losin’, an’ you a-shovin’ up de stuff, a cent at a time — 
jes as if you had a bar’l of it. Have you got any left?” 

“One penny,” Barney answered calmly. 

“Hullee!” Mickey ejaculated. “Didn’t we run a close chance 
o’ goin’ broke? Good t’ing de luck changed jes w’en it did. How 
many pennies did you ’ave in de start — do you know?” 

“One,” Barney replied composedly. 


66 


and Barney Bylow 

“Naw!” Mickey exclaimed, provoked at what he thought Bar- 
ney’s thick-headedness. “You’s got one now; but how many did you 
’ave in de start? See?” 

“One,” Barney reiterated placidly. 

“Aw, come off,” Mickey muttered, his deep disgust evident 
in voice and manner. “W’y, you give me mor’n twenty — dat’s sure.” 

“Yes, an’ w’ere did he get ’em?” one of the other boys cried 
sneeringly. “Maybe he’s ’fraid to tell; an’ maybe dat’s de reason 
he won’t own to havin’ so many.” 

“Look ’ere. Bud Brown!” Mickey snorted hotly, his black eyes 
flashing. “Don’t you go to slingin’ no slack like dat, ’r me an’ 
you’ll come togedder. Barney’s me pard from dis on, an’ I’s goin’ 
to stand up fer him. See?” 

Evidently Bud Brown saw, for he kept a discreet silence. 

“Now, Barney,” Mickey said, turning to his protege, “we’s 
goin’ to divvy up. Here’s half de stuff; take it.” 

“But I don’t want it,” Barney protested. 

The Irish lad gave a grunt of surprise, and his associates looked 
at the country boy in open-mouthed wonder. 

“You won’t take it?” Mickey questioned incredulously. 
“W’at’s de matter wid you, anyhow? ’Fraid shakin’ pennies 
is gamblin’?” 


67 


IVitch Crow 


Barney shook his head rather undecidedly, for he was not sure 
as to the moral status of the game. 

“W’at’s de matter, den?” Mickey insisted. 

Barney made no reply, and the other boys all stood and stared 
at him. 

“Well, you's got to take yV share of de swag,” Mickey said with 
sudden determination. “Hoi’ out y’r paw.” 

But Barney resolutely put his hands behind him. 

“Here, dat won’t work!” Mickey snapped irritably. “You 
take dis stuff, ’r I’ll shove it in y’r pocket.” 

“Please — please don’t do that!” Barney pleaded earnestly. 

Mickey was completely non-plussed; and his companions 
looked at one another in blank amazement. What sort of youngster 
was this, who begged not to have money forced upon him? 

“W’y — ^w’y?” was all Mickey could say. 

“Because — because,” Barney began, then choked, swallowed 
and went on: “You keep it, Mickey, and buy us both a supper.” 

“Well, don’t dat settle it?” the Irish boy laughed. “Say, fel- 
lers! Hear dat? He wants me to buy him a supper.” Then to 
Barney: “Can’t you buy y’r own grub? Don’t you know w’ere to 
go an’ get it?” 

“No,” Barney replied. 


68 


and Barney Bylow 

“Well, ril go wid you; but you’s got to be a man, an’ pay y’r 
own bill. Now take dis stuff.” 

Barney again quickly put his hands behind him, but Mickey, 
with a laugh, skilfully dropped the handful of coins into his pro- 
tege’s left pocket. 

“Oh, why did you do that?” Barney wailed. “Now you’ve 
lost them all.” 

All the boys laughed heartily; Barney was the most amusing 
urchin they had ever met — his verdancy was refreshing. 

“Yes, I’s lost ’em,” Mickey giggled, “but you’s got ’em.” 

“But I haven’t got them!” was the astounding declaration. 

“W’at!” 

“I haven’t!” 

“W’ere is dey, den?” 

“I — I don’t know!” 

“Aw, come off!” — contemptuously. “Dey’s in y’r pocket. Let 
me see.” 

Mickey thrust his hand into the unresisting Barney’s pocket, 
and found it empty! The Irish boy started back, pale as paper, 
his eyes wide open and his mouth quivering. 

— w’y, w’at — did you do wid de money?” he gasped 

huskily. 


69 


IVitch Crow 


“Nothing,” Barney replied, fidgeting about uneasily; “I didn’t 
touch it.” 

“Ain’t it dere?” one of the boys inquired with grave interest. 

“Naw,” said Mickey, solemnly shaking his head. 

“Aw, stufif!” sneered one boy. 

“Bosh!” commented another. 

“It’s a fack,” declared Mickey. “I’s tellin’ you de troof. If you 
doesn’t b’lieve it, try fer y’rselves.” 

The challenge was promptly accepted; one after another thrust 
a hand into Barney’s pocket, and brought forth nothing. Amaze- 
ment bordering on superstitious awe rested upon each countenance. 
For a few moments silence reigned. 

Then Mickey said with an uneasy laugh: “Say, Barney! 
You’s de greatest ever — you is!” 

“The greatest what?” Barney asked. 

“W’y de greatest fakir, ’r hoodoo, ’r w’atever you is — dat’s w’at.” 

“But I’m not — ” Barney began, in an attempt to disclaim the 
questionable honor. 

“Don’t explain nothin’ to dese fellers,” Mickey shut him up. 
“I doesn’t know how you do it, but you can tell me after w’ile — 
w’en we’s by ourselves. You an’ me’ll work de graft to beat de band ; 
we can make a bar’l o’ stufif — bettin’ wid fellers. Gee! But you’s 


70 


and Barney Bylow 

a slick one! An’ to t’ink dat I took you fer a softy! Hullee! But 
come on ; let’s go an’ hunt some grub.” 

Silently Barney accompanied his new-found friend. The latter 
led the way to a dingy, ill-smelling restaurant a few squares back 
from the water-front. There the two seated themselves at a small, 
oil-cloth-covered table and partook of a supper of garlic-flavored 
soup and bread and butter. 

When they had finished their frugal repast Mickey remarked: 

“Now you can settle y’r bill an’ I’ll settle mine.” 

“But I have no money,” was Barney’s natural objection. 

“No money?” cried Mickey. 

“Only a penny.” 

“Come off!” — incredulously. 

“That’s all I have.” And Barney held up the single coin, in 
proof. 

“Aw, you’s jokin’ — you’s foolin’!” grinned Mickey. “Don’t 
hand me no gag o’ dat kind. Didn’t I divvy — didn’t I give you 
half de stuff? You’s not got it in y’r pocket, I knows, but you’s got 
it hid ’bout you some’rs. You can’t give me no game like dat.” 

“No indeed — indeed, Mickey,” Barney insisted earnestly. “I 
haven’t the money you put in my pocket — not a cent of it anywhere.” 

Mickey stared, stupefied. 

“Honest?” he whispered. 


71 


IVitch Crow 


“Honest!” Barney replied with proper solemnity and unction. 

“Well, you is a hoodoo!” the Irish ragamuffin muttered, his 
tone and manner suggesting covert disgust or open admiration — or 
both. 

Then he asked: “W’at become o’ de stuff?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Sure?” 

“Sure!” 

“W’y, Barney, it couldn’t get out o’ y’r pocket.” 

“It did,” Barney answered. 

“Dat’s so,” — with a reflective shake of the head. 

“Does all money act dat way wid you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hullee!” exclaimed Mickey, his eyes popping open. “An’ dat’s 
w’y you didn’t want to take de swag — de stuff I put in y’r pocket, 
den?” 

“Yes,” Barney admitted. 

“W’at got you in such a fix as dat?” Mickey questioned. 

“I — I don’t want to tell you,” Barney stammered; “you wouldn’t 
believe me; you’d think me crazy.” 

Mickey was silent a moment, then made answer musingly: “I 
guess dat’s right. No feller could explain a t’ing o’ dat kind wid- 
out me callin’ him nutty — crazy. It’s a mighty tough shape for a 


72 


and Barney Bylozv 

chap to be in, too.” Then, suddenly, after another moment of grave 
thought: “Well, I sp’ose I’ll ’ave to settle de bill fer us bofe. 
W’ere you goin’ to hang out tonight?” 

“Where am I going to stay — to sleep?” Barney returned. 

“Sure.” 

“I don’t know; I have no place.” 

“Well, you can roost wid me,” Mickey offered. “I’s got a 
nest in de attic o’ one o’ de rookeries on de river bank. Jes wait 
till I settle de bill, an’ we’ll go an’ turn in.” 

On his return from making payment to the proprietor, who 
was himself waiting on table in the rear of the room, the Irish lad 
remarked carelessly: 

“W’en I give dat bloke de stuff all in coppers he laughed an’ 
said de cops was lookin’ fer a kid dat had been shovin’ a lot of ’em 
all over de town. Come on ; le’s be turnin’ in fer a snooze.” 

At the announcement Barney changed color, but Mickey did 
not notice his companion’s agitation, and together the two left the 
place. 

As they were slowly climbing the dark, rickety stairs leading up 
to Mickey’s den under the eaves of a tall rookery, the country boy 
asked : 

“Are you an orphan, Mickey?” 

“Yep,” Mickey replied laconically and complacently, as though 


73 


IVitch Crow 


orphanage were the natural and to-be-desired state of all youngsters. 

Barney sighed heavily; he was thinking of home and its mani- 
fold comforts. 

On reaching the small room which Mickey had graphically and 
truthfully described as a “nest,” and which was lighted alone by a 
dingy skylight, the two tumbled down upon a pallet of musty com- 
forters in one corner and sought rest and sleep. 

But just as Barney was crossing the border of dreamland, 
Mickey called him back with : 

“Say, Barney?” 

“What?” the latter responded drowsily. 

Mickey sat erect and asked: “If you can’t keep no money in 
y’r pockets, how did it come you could give me all dem coppers 
to shake wid? Say!” 

“I just gave you one at a time,” Barney offered in explanation. 

“Dat’s all right,” Mickey said; “but you had more dan one in 
y’r pocket, ’r else you couldn’t ’ave give me so many.” 

“I didn’t have more than one at a time in my pocket.” 

“W’at!” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Doesn’t you never?” 

“No, and when I take that one out another one comes.” 

“Hullee!” was all Mickey could say. 


74 


and Barney By low 

After a momentary silence he dropped back upon the cot, mut- 
tering: 

“Well, if dat don’t jar me! I can’t make nothin’ of it; I can’t 
understand it.” 

“Neither can — can I,” Barney mumbled sleepily. 

A few minutes later both were sound asleep, and Barney was 
dreaming of the comforts of home, perhaps, and Mickey was dream- 
ing of a morrow free from want and care. 



7 ? 


IVitcb Crow 


Chapter VII 


H 


HE next morning Barney and Mickey, lying upon their hum- 


I ble pallet and lazily blinking at the gray dawn stealing in 


through the dingy skylight, resolved themselves into a ways and 
means committee, and discussed what they would do and how they 
would do it. 

“De first t’ing,” Mickey remarked, with an earnestness and 
solemnity befitting to the subject and the occasion, “is to see ’bout 
gettin’ some breakfast.” 

“I’d like to wash first,” Barney made reply, the force of habit 
strong upon him. 

“Wash w’at?” Mickey interrogated. 

“My hands and face — and comb my hair,” said Barney. 

“W’at you wants to do all dat fer?” 

“Because I’d feel better, and because it’s the proper thing to 
do. Mother taught me to wash before meals, always. Don’t you 
ever wash, Mickey?” 

“No. W’at’s de use? A feller jes’ goes an’ gets dirty ag’in.” 

Barney was shocked, and gave his companion a brief lecture 
upon the ethics of cleanliness. 


76 



and Barney Bylow 

“You’s got parents, eh?” Mickey said sullenly. 

“Yes,” Barney answered. 

“An’ I s’pose you run off from a good home?” 

Barney admitted the fact. 

“An’ you never had to shift fer y’rself, never had to make y’r 
own livin’ — eat w’atever you could ketch, an’ sleep w’erever you 
could find a place to drop down, eh?” 

“N-o, not till now,” Barney replied, a catch in his voice. 

“Den you doesn’t know nothin’ — nothin’ at all,” Mickey de- 
clared. “Wait till you’s been up ag’in de t’ing as long’s I ’ave — 
den you can talk. You’s a plumb fool, Barney — you is!” 

“Why?” 

“’Cause you is — fer cornin’ to de city; fer cuttin’ loose from 
de ol’ folks. You’s got a heap to learn, you has.” 

“Maybe I was foolish to leave home,” Barney said, after a few 
moments of sober reflection, “and maybe I have a lot to learn, but 
I’ve got to learn it— that’s all. I won’t go back home— not yet, 
anyhow.” 

“W’y?” 

“Because.” 

“ 'Cause w'at? ’Fraid de ol’ man’ll flog you?” 

“N-o.” 

“W’at, den?” 

77 


IVitch Crow 

“All the people — all the boys, especially — would laugh at me,” 
Barney explained. 

“I sees,” said Mickey, nodding sagely. “Dat’s so. Well, den, 
if you’s made up y’r mind to stay in de game, le’s plan out w’at 
we’s goin’ to do. Course I could go out an’ do a few shines,” patting 
the kit at his side, “but I’s hungry right now.” 

“I can furnish the pennies,” Barney grinned, rising, “but — 
but—” 

“But w’at?” Mickey asked quickly. 

“I don’t want to pass them.” 

“W’y doesn’t you?” 

“I’m the boy the police are after.” 

“Hullee!” was Mickey’s exclamation of surprise. “Is dat so! 
No wonder you’s shy of passin’ any more of ’em. But I’ll do it; 
I isn’t scared of shovin’ ’em. Fish ’em out; I’ll fill me pockets.” 

Barney obeyed the order, dropping one penny after another 
into Mickey’s ready palm; and the latter crammed his pockets until 
they bulged. 

At last he announced: “Dat’s plenty — fer dis time.” Then 
abruptly: “Say!” 

“Well?” said Barney. 

“Wonder if I could pull out coppers, an’ keep a-pullin’ ’em out 
f’rever an’ f’rever, as you does, if I had on dem pants o’ y’rs.” 


78 


and Barney Bylow 

‘Wonder if you could,” Barney speculated. 

“Le’s swap pants, an’ see,” Mickey suggested. 

“All right,” Barney agreed. 

Acting upon the spur of the moment, they made the exchange. 
Mickey immediately explored the depths of his new possessions, 
and brought forth the penny he found. 

“Dere’s one,” he said, holding it up between the thumb and 
finger of his right hand. 

Barney nodded. 

Mickey transferred the coin to his left palm, and made a sec- 
ond exploration, but his hand came forth empty. 

“Dere’s no more dere,” he announced in a tone of disappoint- 
ment. 

“Of course not,” Barney laughed. “You can have only one 
penny at a time. You’ll have to get rid of that one in your hand 
before another’ll come in your pocket.” 

“W’y, dat’s a fack,” Mickey grinned. “I clean fergot ’bout 
dat. I’ll t’row dis one on de floor.” 

He did so, and again sent his right hand to the bottom of his 
pocket. 

“Any there?” Barney inquired with keen expectancy. 

“Naw,” Mickey replied, disgust evident in voice and man- 
ner. “De t’ing only works fer you. Le’s swap back.” 


79 


IVitch Crow 


Barney nodded approval to the proposition, and a minute later 
each boy was again in possession of his own trousers. 

“De t’ing’s in you, Barney, an’ not in y’r trousers,” Mickey de- 
clared emphatically. 

Barney nodded his conviction of the truth of the statement. 

“Hullee!” cried Mickey, with startling suddenness, throwing up 
his hands. 

“What’s — what’s the matter?” asked the country boy, in genuine 
concern. 

Mickey burst out laughing. 

“W’y, all dem coppers you give me is gone; me pockets is empty. 
Wouldn’t dat shake you?” 

“I put on your trousers, you know,” Barney said, grinning 
sheepishly, “and I can’t have more than a penny. See?” 

“Well, I guesses I sees,” the Irish lad replied, making a wry 
face. “An’ I sees, too, dat we’s got to do our job all over ag’in — 
got to make anoder draw on de bank. Understand?” 

“Yes.” 

“All right, den. Fork over.” 

Again Barney “forked over,” and again Mickey crammed his 
pockets. 

“Are you going to spend all those today?” the former asked, 
uneasiness patent in his voice. 


8o 


• and Barney By low 

“Yep — fer sure,” was the determined response. “Wa’t’s de use 
o’ havin’ a good graft an’ not workin’ it — hey?” 

“But I’m afraid of the police,” Barney objected. 

“Aw, stuff!” Mickey cried scornfully. “De cops won’t get 
onto de game; dey’s slow — dead slow.” 

“They got onto me,” the country boy answered petulantly. 

“Yes, dat’s so,” Mickey admitted. “But you tried to shove de 
stuff at stores, an’ places like dat, didn’t you — puttin’ up a cent at a 
time?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well,” the Irish lad went on with complacent self-confidence, 
“I knows a game dat beats dat one a block. All de boys is wantin’ 
coppers to shake an’ match wid, an’ all de fruit-stand fellers is wantin 
’em fer change; so I’ll jest swap wid ’em — tradin’ pennies fer nickles, 
an’ dimes, an’ quarters. See? Dey’ll all be glad to get ’em, an 1 11 
give ’em a few extra ones ev’ry deal — no need o’ us bein stickin 
an’ dey’ll feel good, an’ won’t squeal. W’at does you t’ink o dat fer 
a scheme?” 

“It’s all right,” Barney said, with manifest admiration for his 
partner’s resourcefulness. 

“Den le’s take a sneak, an’ see how de t’ing works.” 

Forth the two went and had breakfast and put Mickey’s ex- 
pedient in operation. It worked admirably. Soon the stock of pen- 

81 


JVitch Crow 


nies was exhausted, but the Irish boy had a handful of coins of 
larger denominations. Then they adjourned to a secluded spot, and 
when they emerged Mickey’s pockets were again bulging with pen- 
nies. 

Until noon they worked “de graft,” as Mickey termed it. Then 
he remarked : 

“Seems to me we’s done enough fer one day. Le’s count up, 
an’ see how much we got.” 

“That’s what I say,” Barney assented heartily. He was weary 
of tramping from one part of the city to another; and his nerves 
were worn with the excitement of what he regarded as ever-pres- 
ent danger of arrest and imprisonment. 

“Purty nigh ten dollars,” Mickey announced jubilantly, when he 
had completed the count of the money in his possession. “Hullee! 
Ain’t dat great? W’y dis graft’s better’n a license to steal — an’ dat’s 
no joke. Now, we’ll lay off an’ spend w’at we’s got; den we’ll dig 
up ag’in.” 

“I can’t spend any of it,” Barney remarked rather downheart- 

edly. 

“Dat’s all right— all right,” Mickey cried cheerily, giving his 
partner a reassuring slap on the back. “I can spend it fer you; it’s 
jes de same. See?” 

“What’ll we spend it for?” Barney asked by way of reply. 

82 


and Barney Bylow 

'W’at’ll we spend it fer?” Mickey laughed. “Well, listen at de 
chump ! Spend it fer all de t’ings we wants, dat’s w’at ; fer candy, 
an lemonade, an’ ice-cream, an’ all dem t’ings. Den we’ll tend de 
’teayters, ride on de ’lectric cars, go out to de parks an’ de zoo, take 
in de ’scursions up to de Island — an’ all dem ’musements. Aw, we’ll 
find plenty to spend it fer — leave dat to me. An’ I doesn’t peddle no 
more papers ’r shine no more shoes — dat’s flat. I’s a capitalist now, 
I is.” 

“And what am I?” Barney inquired, plainly dissatisfied with 
the unimportant and passive part he was compelled to play. 

“W’y, you’s me silent pardner,” Mickey answered composedly. 
“Come on, let’s go an’ ’ave a bang-up dinner.” 

For several days, Barney could never tell how many, for one 
day seemed to merge into another in a way that was most perplexing, 
the two “pards” carried out the plans that had origin in the fer- 
tile brain of the Irish boy. They gorged themselves with indiges- 
tible sweetmeats; they set their stomachs awash with unwholesome 
beverages. They bought themselves new clothes — loud and bizarre; 
they went to all sorts of public entertainments — ^wherever they could 
gain admittance — and indulged in all sorts of amusements. Mickey 
smoked cigarettes, and bragged in a loud and lordly way; Barney 
chewed gum and swaggered. Both were fast becoming idle, un- 
principled nuisances. The city boy had been industrious and hon- 

83 


IVitch Crow 


est, to say the least; the country boy had been clean and upright, 
if just a little perverse. But now the two were in a fair way to de- 
generate into worthless, nasty little criminals. 



Yet all of Mickey’s former associates looked admiringly upon 
the twain, and envied them their remarkable good fortune. 

One day the two partners went up to the Island, 


84 


a summer 


and Barney Bylow 

resort a few miles from the city. On the way back Mickey cocked 
his heels upon the guard-rail of the boat, blew a cloud of cigarette 
smoke into the air, and drawled lazily and affectedly: 

“Ain’t dis great, me friend? We’s havin’ de times of our lives, 
we is ; we’s cuttin’ as big a swell as millionaires does. Ain’t it bully? 
Say!” 

“I’m getting tired of it,” Barney said gloomily. 

“Tired o’ w’at?” Mickey asked sharply, jerking down his feet 
and whirling around in his chair. 

“Of the city — of everything,” Barney answered. 

“An’ I s’pose you’s t’inkin’ o’ playin’ de prodigal son — t’inkin’ 
o’ goin’ back home?” Mickey sneered. 

“Yes,” Barney replied simply. 

“Well, you isn’t a-goin’ to do it — you hears me!” Mickey cried 
angrily. 

“Why?” the country boy inquired innocently. 

“W’y!” Mickey snapped. “Jes ’cause you isn’t— dat’s w’y. 
S’pose I’s goin’ to let loose of a good t’ing like dis is? Hullee! Not 
if I knows meself !” 

“I can go if I want to,” Barney said stubbornly. 

“Well, you can’t — so dere!” 

“I will!” 

“You won’t!” 


85 


IVitch Crow 


Then each sat and glared at the other — unrighteous rage flush- 
ing both boyish faces; but neither would condescend to utter a 
further word on the subject. 

It was dark when the excursion steamer reached the city. 
Mickey and Barney silently debarked, and upon the wharf were met 
by Bud Brown. 

“I’se been waiting to see you two fellers,” he said. 

“W’at fer — w’at you want?” was Mickey’s ungracious inquiry. 

“Want to know w’at terms you’s goin’ to offer me,” Bud replied 
smoothly. 

“Terms?” Mickey cried. 

“Yep — terms,” Bud said with an insolent grin. “You two 
blokes has been a-flyin’ high — wearin’ swell togs an’ takin’ in all 
de shows, an’ all dat. I wants to be a member of de firm. See?” 

“Well, you can’t,” snapped Mickey. 

“Can’t I?” his insolent grin widening. 

“No, you can’t.” 

“W’y?” 

“ ’Cause you can’t — dat’s all.” 

“Dat’s y’r final answer, is it?” 

“Yes, it is.” 

“Den I knows wa’t to d’pend on — an’ w’at to do,” Bud said, 
turning away. 


86 


and Barney Bylow 

W at you mean?” Mickey asked, with growing uneasiness. 

“Nothin’,” Bud answered surlily, making off up the wharf. 

Look ere. Bud, Mickey hastened to say in a more concili- 
atory tone. “Me and Barney can’t take no more pards in on dis 
t’ing. If we could, we’d take you. Wouldn’t we, Barney?” 

Barney nodded a doubtful and almost imperceptible affirmative. 

“But we can’t at all, can we, Barney?” Mickey pursued. 

Barney grunted a decided and unmistakable negative. 

“Den de jig’s up, all right,” Bud muttered. 

“W’at you mean?” Mickey growled. “Out wid it” 

“Jes dis,” Bud answered coolly: “I comes in on de graft, ’r I 
tells de cops.” 

“Tell de cops?” Mickey gasped, aghast at his former associate’s 
perfidious design. “Tell ’em w’at?” 

“Dat you two is de guys dat’s been tappin’ all de tills an’ 
robbin’ all de slot machines,” was Bud’s cool reply. 

“But we isn’t!” Mickey objected. 

“Maybe you can make de judge b’lieve dat — w’en twenty wit- 
nesses swears dat you’s been blowin’ in all kinds o’ money — maybe 
you can,” Bud sneered; “and maybe you can explain w’ere you 
got all de money you’s been spendin’ — if you didn’t steal it” 

Tongue-tied with surprise, Barney and Mickey stood and stared 


87 


IVitch Crow 


at the audacious speaker. Presently, however, the Irish boy found 
voice to say: 

“An’ you’s goin’ to peach — goin’ to tell de cops?” 

“Yes, I is.” 

‘Do it, den — you sneak!” Mickey cried wrathfully, recklessly. 

Bud Brown gave a taunting laugh, and ran away. Barney 
and Mickey silently made their way to their den under the eaves of 
the tall rookery, crestfallen and thoughtful. 



and Barney Bylaw 

Chapter Vffl 

H HE two partners clattered down the stairs next morning, 
Mickey in the lead. Barely had they reached the open air, 
when a stalwart policeman collared the Irish boy and made a grab 
for his companion. But the nimble Barney eluded the officer’s grasp 
and went ducking and dancing into the middle of the street. There 
he stopped, wheeled half around and looked back at his unfortunate 
chum. 

“Come back here,” the policeman called; “I want you, too.” 
Barney hesitated, his dread of arrest and imprisonment contend- 
ing with his respect for a representative of the law and his sense of 
loyalty to his “pard.” 

“Come back here,” the officer repeated sternly, firmly holding 
the squirming Mickey by the collar. “If you don’t, it’ll be the worse 
for you when I do get you. Come on.” 

“Don’t you do it, Barney!” Mickey yelled. “Tote de mail — 
take a sneak. You can’t help me; I’s pinched fer keeps. Pull y’r 
freight, I say! Get out o’ town an’ light fer home; de jig’s up.” 

Still Barney hesitated; he felt it would be traitorous to desert 
his friend in time of trouble. The policeman made a move toward 
him, almost dragging the resisting Irish boy. 



IVitch Crow 


^^Scoot!” Mickey screamed frantically. “Skedaddle, Barney! 
Doesn’t you hear me — hasn’t you got a mite o’ gumption? Dey’ll 




and Barney By low 

jug us bofe. But maybe if you’s out, you can find a way to get 
me out. Look sharp! Make a run fer it!” 

The officer was close upon the country boy and reaching a great 
paw for him. Reluctantly Barney acted upon Mickey’s advice. 
One swift glance of friendship and pity, and he turned and sped 
away up the water-front. 

“Here!” the policeman bawled lustily. “Come back here, you 
young scalawag!” 

But Barney kept on. 

“Goodbye, Barney!” Mickey cried, his brave young voice quav- 
ering. Barney could not reply for the lump in his throat, but he 
waved his hand, and continued his flight without looking back. 

An hour later, when he was many blocks from the scene of the 
distressing misadventure, he stopped, heaved a deep sigh, and stood 
gazing vacantly into a shop window, seeing nothing. 

“I must find some way of getting Mickey out of this scrape,” 
he mused dejectedly, digging his hands deep into his pockets. “I 
got him into it. No, I didn’t, either; old White Feather got us 
both into it. The mean old thing!” his anger rising at thought of 
the Witch-Crow and her doings. “If I ever meet her again. I’ll 
stone her to death!” 

“Haw, haw, haw! Haw, haw, haw!” 


91 


IVitch Crow 


“Why — why, that sounds like her laughing now,” the boy mut- 
tered, starting and staring all around. 

No bird of any kind was in sight, but the stooped figure of 
a little old woman in black was just disappearing around a neigh- 
boring street corner. 

“I wonder if that is White Feather,” the lad whispered to him- 
self; “it must be — Fm sure I heard her laugh.” 

And immediately he set out in pursuit of the familiar figure 
he had glimpsed. But on turning the corner he discovered nothing, 
nobody; not a soul was in sight in the direction in which the little 
old woman had apparently gone. 

“I don’t know what's the matter with me,” Barney muttered 
peevishly. “I guess I must, be going crazy. I thought I heard 
the Witch-Crow laugh, and I thought I saw her hobble around 
the corner, but it seems I didn’t hear nor see anybody.” 

For a full minute he stood there, perplexed and wondering, ab- 
sent-mindedly digging his small fists into his pockets. 

Presently he brought forth in his left hand a creased and soiled 
card, and having smoothed it out in his palm he read: 

Miss Lillian Brainard, 

1492 E. Columbus Road 

Barney started. 

“I’ll go to her,” he murmured under his breath. “She’s the . 


92 


and Barney By low 

young lady that had the pretty ponies, and she said if I ever needed 
help, to come to her. Well, if a fellow ever needed help, I need it 
now. ni go to her right away. But I wonder where Columbus 
Road is. I’m afraid to ask a policeman; I’ll inquire at the drug 
store I just passed.” 

He acted upon his resolution, and learned that Columbus Road 
ran east and west some eight squares north of where he was, and 
that the number he sought was several miles from the business por- 
tion of the city — far out in a new and fashionable residence district. 

The druggist volunteered the information: 

“It’s a driving road; no car-line on it. You’ve got a hot walk 
before you.” 

“Uh-huh,” Barney answered with an apathetic nod, and he 
turned and left the place, forgetting to thank the man for his kind- 
ness. 

He found the street he sought, and trudged off eastward. Fif- 
teen minutes walk brought him to a long bridge spanning the river. 
He crossed this and kept on. Little by little, he left the hurly-burly 
behind; more and more the aspect of the shifting scene changed. 
The city fell away; the country appeared on all sides; but still the 
broad ribbon of asphalt, hot and glaring in the summer sunshine, 
stretched on endlessly. 

“I ought to be nearly there,” the boy grumbled, pausing to take 


93 


IVitch Crow 


a deep breath and mop the perspiration from his flushed face. 
“Surely I am nearly there. But this doesn’t look much like a new 
and fashionable residence place — nothing but old orchards, and weed- 
grown fields, and tumble-down fences and barns.” And he ac- 
corded the surroundings a sweeping glance of contempt. 

“Well, I might as well move on,” he muttered; “she lives out 
on this road somewhere, I reckon. Several miles! Well, I think — 
what’s that?” The boy started back in affright as a large, black 
bird flew across the road just in front of him, brushing his face with 
its wings. 

“Caw, caw, caw! Haw, haw, haw!” it screamed hoarsely, flap- 
ping leisurely toward a tall dead tree in the adjoining field. There it 
alighted and unconcernedly began to plume itself. It was the white- 
feather crow. 

Barney was hungry and heart-sore, and as a result was easily 
angered. This latest bit of impudence on the part of the Witch- 
Crow, as the lad viewed the matter, added insult to injury. So 
now he yelled frantically, shaking his fist in impotent rage : 

“Never mind, old White Feather, never mind! I’ll get even 
with you! You hateful old thing! O, I wish I had a gun! I’d fol- 
low you and shoot you if it took me all day. But my turn’ll come. 
Never you mind!” 

The crow went on pluming itself, giving no heed to the boy’s 


94 


and Barney Bylow 

intemperate speech. Perhaps it did not hear him, for the tree upon 
which it had perched stood at quite a distance from the highway. 

“Oh, you can’t fool me, old White Feather!” Barney blustered. 
“You can pretend you don’t hear me — or pretend it isn’t you; but 
I know; I saw the white stripe down your back. You won’t answer, 
won’t you? I’ll see about that!” 

Forgetting for the moment the urgency of the mission upon 
which he had ^et out, the angry boy began to search from one side 
of the road to the other for gravel or bits of stone. He meant to 
climb the fence, draw near the tree upon which the insolent crow 
sat, and compel it to take flight. And so intent upon this new pur- 
pose was he, that he did not hear an approaching automobile speed- 
ing toward the city — that he gave no heed to the repeated sound 
of a shrill whistle, till the machine was almost upon him. 

The single occupant of the vehicle was a young man. He 
swerved the auto sharply to the right, barely missing the urchin and 
almost ditching the machine in a deep gutter at the roadside, skil- 
fully regained the center of the asphalt roadway, and brought the 
car to a standstill fifty yards beyond the place of meeting. But 
in the maneuver he was somewhat shaken up, his temper was ruffled, 
and his coat hanging over the back of the seat fell to the ground. 

“Look here, youngster!” he cried sharply, turning and looking 
over his shoulder and panting with vexation and excitement. “I 


95 


IVitch Crow 


came near running over you. Why didn’t you get out of the road? 
I whistled three times. If you want to dream, you’d better go over 
there in the field and lie down under a tree.” 

“I wasn’t dreaming,” Barney answered indignantly, but shud- 
dering at thought of the danger he had escaped. “I was just hunt- 
ing for stones.” 

“Hunting for stones?” the young man said, smiling. “What in 
the world did you want of stones?” 

“To throw at that mean old crow over there,” with a jerk of 
his thumb indicating the bird. “I meant to go over there and scare 
her away.” 

“Oh, that’s it,” laughed the young man. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And what has the crow done to you?” 

Barney made no reply. 

“Stolen your eggs?” the young man suggested. 

Barney shook his head. 

“Carried off your young chickens?” 

Another negative shake of the boy’s head. 

“What then?” 

No response from Barney. 

“Well,” the young man said petulantly, “if you won’t tell, you 


96 


and Barney Bylow 

won’t. But I’ve fooled away enough time, and must be going. 
Want to ride?” 

“I’m not going toward the city.” 

“Oh, you’re not.” 

“No sir. I’m going out to see Miss Lillian Brainard.” 

“The deuce you are!” the young man exclaimed, his brows ele- 
vated. 

“Yes, sir, I am,” Barney said sturdily. “Do you know where 
she lives?” 

“Well, I should say!” the young man chuckled. “But what 
do you want to see her for?” 

“I don’t want to be saucy,” Barney said hesitatingly, “but — ” 

“But what?” 

“I don’t know that it’s any of your business what I want to see 
Miss Brainard for.” 

The young man threw back his head and laughed heartily. 

“That’s cool,” he shouted gleefully, slapping his thigh, “and 
it’s true, too. You don’t know that it’s any of my business, but I 
know it is. I’m her affianced husband — perhaps, and I’m jealous of 
you — maybe.” And again he roared with laughter. 

Barney was nettled by the young man’s hilarity. “I hope she’s 
not going to marry you,” he muttered in a fierce undertone. 

“What’s that you say?” the young man inquired quickly. 


97 


IVitch Crow 


“I said I hoped she wouldn’t marry you.” 

“Why?” with amused interest. 

“Because you’re not good enough for her — that’s why,” Bar- 
ney answered boldly. 

The young man instantly sobered. 

“You’re right — that’s a fact,” he said earnestly. “But how did 
you know it — how did you find it out? Come here and tell me.” 

Barney slowly approached the automobile and told the young 
man of his meeting with Miss Brainard and of her promise to help 
him. 

“I bet you’re telling the truth; that sounds just like some of her 
doings,” the young man said solemnly, when Barney had concluded 
his recital. “She is too good for me — or any other man, and no 
one knows it better than I do. But I must be going. Tramp out 
and see her; the house is about a half-mile beyond the turn of the 
road yonder. And say a good word for me,” smiling. “Hello! 
Where’s my coat? Why, yonder it is, at the side of the gutter. 
Bring it to me, please.” 

Barney obediently went to fetch the garment indicated, and 
the young man gave his attention to the machine. When the boy 
had restored the coat to its owner the latter remarked: 

“I presume I didn’t lose anything out of the pockets; I’ll see, 
though. Here’s my pocketbook, all right. Wonder if everything’s 



“Where’s The Money,” He Asked Coldly. 



»"V 



and Barney Bylow 

Immediately Barney turned pale and began to tremble. He 
knew that if there had been money in the pocketbook it was gone 
and he scented danger. The young man opened the case of red 
morocco, and gave a sudden start. ^ 

“Why — why — ” he began. Then he stopped short and looked 
the lad full in the face. 

“What’s — what’s the matter?” Barney asked in a husky whis- 
per, his dry lips hardly able to frame the words. 

“My money’s gone,” the young man announced gravely, sadly. 

Barney could make no reply, and the young man reached out 
and tQok him by the arm. 

“Where is it — where’s the money that was in this pocketbook?” 
he asked coldly. 

“I don’t know anything about it,” Barney stammered. 

“Yes, you do,” the young man said severely. “Don’t you lie to 
me!” 

“I don’t know anything about it, I tell you,” Barney insisted, 
wriggling to get free. “I didn’t know that there was any money in 
the pocketbook.” 

“Well, there was, and you took it out,” giving the boy a shake. 
“Shove it over; give it to me.” 

“I haven’t got it,” Barney pleaded truthfully. “Let me go; 
you’re hurting me.” 


LOFa 

99 


JVitch Crow 


^‘Oh, yes, I’ll let you go!” the young man sneered. “You fork 
over that money, you young thief, or I’ll take you back to town and 
hand you over to the police.” 

Barney was hungry, weak and miserable, and now he burst into 
tears. 

“No use in sniffling,” the young man said brutally. “You took 
the money — nearly eighty dollars, all in bills — while my back was 
turned. I believe you snatched my coat ofif the seat when I was 
passing you. That’s it — that’s what you were in the middle of the 
road for. But hand it over; and I’ll turn you loose.” 

“I tell you I haven’t got your money, indeed, indeed I haven’t!” 
Barney sobbed. 

“You’re a lying, little thief!” the young man cried angrily. 
“And you’ve been lying to me all the time about Miss Brainard. 
I’ll see if you haven’t the money.” And he roughly went through 
the lad’s pockets. Then, not finding what he sought and expected 
to find, of course, he was more angry than before, and he began to 
shake and curse the boy, and demand to know what he had done with 
the money. 

Thoroughly frightened, Barney could only weep and struggle 
to get free. So the young man dragged him into the automobile and 
set out for the city, wrathfully and recklessly running his machine at 
the highest speed. 


lOO 


and Barney By low 

And flapping in pursuit came the Witch-Crow, cawing delight- 
edly: 

“Haw, haw, haw! Bawrney Bylaw! Broke the law, law, 
law! Bed of straw, straw, straw! Bawrney Bylaw!” 



lOI 


IVitch Crow 



Chapter IX 


N hour later Bar- 
ney was shoved 
into a cell at the city 
prison. The iron door 
clanged behind him, and 
there he stood in the mid- 
dle of the floor, trying to 
pierce the gloom of the 
dusky interior. 

“Well, hullee gee!” 
came an exclamation 
from a dark corner. 

“Mickey!” Barney 
cried in mingled surprise 
and delight, groping his 
way toward the dark cor- 
ner whence the voice 
carre. 

“Yes, it’s me — 


102 



and Barney Bylow 

Mickey,” the Irish lad returned, rising to a sitting posture and 
swinging his legs from the couch upon which he had been lying. 
“An’ it’s you, is it, Barney?” 

“Yes,” the latter replied, weakly dropping down beside his friend. 

“Well, you’s a bird, you is!” the Irish boy flared contemptuously. 

“Why?” Barney inquired innocently. 

“W’y!” Mickey snarled. “’Cause you is — dat’s w’y. Lettin’ 
de cops gobble you in, after you had de start you had. You’s a bird, 
Barney, sure t’ing!” 

“But the police didn’t catch me,” Barney answered. 

“Naw?” Mickey questioned. “Come off! How’d you get here, 
den?” 

Barney entered into a full explanation, and at the conclusion of 
the recital, Mickey said with a gasp: 

“Hullee! Barney, you is hoodooed fer sure — an’ fer keeps! An’ 
you’s hoodooed me; an’ we’s bofe in hock. An’ how we’s goin’ to 
get out is more dan I knows. A Witch-Crow! Hullee!” 

“Haw, haw, haw!” 

Both lads glanced quickly toward the grated window whence 
the sound came. 

There sat the white-feather crow peering through the bars at 
them and chuckling and flufling its feathers. 

“You mean old witch — you!” Barney cried in a tempest of in- 

103 


IVitch Crow 


stant anger, dashing to the window and impotently shaking the grat- 
ing. 

The bird dropped from the stone ledge and flew away, cawing 
delightedly: 

“Haw, haw, haw! Saw, saw, saw! Bawrney Bylaw!” 

Mickey joined his companion in distress at the window and both 
stood and watched the crow’s flight over the house-tops — then stared 
at each other in dumb silence. 

“Well, wouldn’t dat jar you!” Mickey jerked out at last. “I 
t’ought all de time you was nutty — was out o’ y’r head — dat dere 
wasn’t no Witch-Crow. I jest pr’tended to b’lieve w’at you said, 
jest to humor you. But I saw it, an’ I heard it — heard it talk! An’ 
it laughed an’ said, ^Saw, saw, saw!’ jest as plain as anybody could 
say it. Wonder w’at it meant, Barney?” 

Barney thoughtfully but dejectedly shook his head. 

“W’y, looky here!” Mickey exclaimed, picking up an object 
from the window-sill. 

It was a small, bright steel saw and the two boys looked at it 
and at each other in blank amazement. 

“It’s a saw,” Mickey whispered hoarsely, after an ineffectual 
attempt to speak aloud. 

Barney nodded gravely. 

“An’ dat crow — ’r Witch-Crow, ’r w’atever it is — put it dere.” 

104 


and Barney Bylow 

Again Barney nodded. 

“W’ere do you s’pose she got it?” 

Barney shook his head. 

“Well, anyhow, she meant us to use it to get out o’ here wid,” 
Mickey declared. 

“Eh?” Barney cried quickly, brightening visibly. “Is — is that 
what — what it’s for?” 

“W’y, course it is, numskull!” Mickey exclaimed scornfully. 
“W’at did you s’pose it was fer — to trim our corns wid?” 

“No,” Barney said slowly and apathetically — but grinning in 
spite of himself. 

“Well, didn’t you hear de ol’ Witch-Crow sayin,’ ‘Saw, saw, 
saw?’ ” 

“I did — that’s so,” Barney admitted, again brightening. “But 
what can we saw, Mickey? We can’t saw these iron bars — of course 
we can’t.” 

“Course we can,” Mickey returned sturdily. “Dey’s soft iron 
an’ de saw’s hard steel ; it’ll go troo ’em like — like anyt’ing. We’ll 
saw off one end of ’em and bend ’em out of de way. Den we can 
crawl troo de winder an’ drop onto de roof below — ’tain’t more’n 
ten foot of a drop an’ skedaddle down de fire-escape. Ain’t dat a 
scheme — say? W’en night comes we’ll get out o’ here. Ain’t dat 
so — hey?” 


105 


IVitch Crow 


And the Irish lad joyfully slapped his companion on the shoul- 
der, to arouse him from his apathy. 

“I — don’t — believe — I’ll — do — it,” Barney announced deliber- 
ately, carefully weighing each word. 

“W’y?” Mickey ejaculated in unbounded surprise. 

“I don’t think it would be right,” Barney explained. 

“Stuff!” sneered his “pard.” 

“I don’t.” 

“W’y?” 

“Because — because if — well, I don’t know why it would be 
wrong,” Barney stammered lamely, “but I think it would be. When 
a fellow breaks out of jail, everybody thinks him guilty of whatever 
he was put in for; and I don’t want people to think me guilty of — of 
stealing. Then, they’d catch us again, maybe, and they’d keep us 
in prison longer than ever.” 

“Dat ain’t no joke!” Mickey said with truth and unction. “But 
w’at’s we goin’ to do, den? De judge’ll send us up fer somethin’; 
an’ we hain’t been doin’ nothin’.” 

Barney had no solution for the vexing problem, so he replied: 
“You can break out if you want to, Mickey.” 

“An’ leave you here?” 

“Yes.” 


io6 


and Barney Bylow 

“Dat’d be real nice, now wouldn’t it!” Mickey flared up angrily. 
“Well, I won’t do it — so dere!” 

“I ran away when the policeman got you,” Barney remarked. 

“Dat was dififer’nt.” 

“How?” 

“I was pinched; you wasn’t. Now we’s bofe pinched. See?” 

Barney failed to “see,” and so expressed himself; but Mickey 
scorned to offer further explanation, and the subject was dropped. 

The turnkey came in with their dinners and remained in the 
cell while they ate. When the fellow was gone, Mickey suggested: 

“Le’s take a snooze; it’ll help to pass away de time.” 

So the two tumbled down upon the couch in the corner of the 
room and slept until evening. They were awakened by the turnkey 
bringing in their suppers. 

He said to them: 

“You two’ll be up before the judge in the morning. And you’d 
better tell the truth — better confess; he’ll be easier on you.” 

“W’at’s we charged wid?” Mickey asked. 

“Don’t you know?” returned the man. 

“Naw.” 

“You’re charged with stealing — breaking open slot machines 
and tapping tills; he’s charged with highway robbery.” 


107 


fVitch Crow 


“Hullee!” was Mickey’s amazed ejaculation. “Dat’s purty 
near as bad as bein’ charged wid dynamite!” 

And he stood and stared, his mouth half open. 

“And the proof’s dead against both of you,” the turnkey went 
on; “and you’d better plead guilty.” 

Then he passed out and closed and locked the door. 

“W’at you got to say to dat, Barney — stealin’ an’ highway rob- 
bery?” Mickey asked, when the turnkey’s steps had died out along 
the corridor. 

Barney sadly shook his head, but offered no reply in words. 
After a reflective silence of a few minutes, Mickey remarked ten- 
tatively: 

“Seems sort o’ kind o’ dat ol’ Witch-Crow to bring us a saw; an’ 
sort o’ shabby in us not to use it.” 

Barney maintained a moody silence; and Mickey proceeded:' 

“It — ’r she — ’r w’atever de t’ing is — can’t be as bad as you t’ink, 
Barney — tryin’ to do us a favor o’ dat kind. Wa’t you say?” 

“She’s just trying to get us into more trouble,” Barney pouted. 

“T’ink so?” 

“Yes, I do,” positively. 

“Maybe you’s right,” Mickey murmured thoughtfully; “you 
knows a heap more ’bout Witch-Crows dan I does. An’ I doesn’t 
want to know no more ’bout ’em dan I does — dat’s a fack. I’ll jest 

io8 . 


and Barney Bylow 

t’row dis saw out de winder; den I won’t be t’inkin’ ’bout gettin’ out 
no more. An’ w’en I does get out o’ here I’s goin’ back to my kit — 
back to honest work. I doesn’t want no more easy money in mine — 
I doesn’t.” 

“No, nor me!” Barney cried animatedly if ungrammatically. 
“If I ever get out of this scrape, I’m going right back home to — 
to mother and father.” 

His voice faltered and tears came into his eyes. “And I’ll never 
growl again, because I have to work. Oh, I wish I was at home 
to-night!” 

There came a sudden tapping at the window grating, and a 
hoarse voice cried: 

“Haw, haw, haw! Pshaw, pshaw, pshaw! Bawrney By- 
law!” 

Then there was a flutter of wings, and silence. Barney and 
Mickey listened intently, but no further sound came from the win- 
dow. Evidently the white-feather crow had again taken its depar- 
ture. 

Lonely and dejected, the boys again lay down to sleep, their 
arms around each other. But the night was long, their rest was 
broken, their dreams were harassing, and they longed for morning 
— yet dreaded what it might bring to them. 


109 


IVitch Crow 


Chapter X 

T was nine o’clock the next forenoon when the turnkey came 
into the cell and said briskly: 

“The judge is waiting for you two fellows. Come along.” 
Then, with a nasty grin, “And I wouldn’t be in your shoes for any- 
thing. His Honor’s in a mighty bad humor about something; he 
talks gruffer and hoarser than I ever heard him, and then he’s all 
trigged out in a way I never saw him before. He’s got on a long 
black robe and a hood, and he just sits with his head down and 
don’t have much to say. Oh, you chaps will catch it!” chuckling. 
“His Honor isn’t a very big man in body, but he’s a giant as a 
judge. But come on; he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” 

The boys — duly impressed with the thought of the court and 
the occasion — silently and soberly followed the turnkey up stairs to 
a large, uncarpeted room, dusky and depressing. The walls were 
bare, the windows were dusty and cobwebbed. From the center 
of the ceiling hung a gas chandelier, but the jets were unlighted. 
Stiff-backed benches stood about the floor, occupied by persons 
lounging in various attitudes, and at one side of the room was a tall 
desk and a revolving stool, upon which sat a black-robed and hud- 
dled figure. 



no 


and Barney Bylow 

The boys swept their eyes about the interior as they entered. 
In one corner Barney discovered Miss Brainard and the young man 
of the automobile, and Mickey became aware of the presence of the 
policeman who had arrested him, and nudged his companion and 
pointed a finger at the officer. Miss Brainard smiled reassuringly 
at Barney, and the policeman nodded good-naturedly at Mickey. 

Then Barney’s eye lighted upon the person of the judge, and 
the country boy started and gripped his companion’s arm. 

“Mickey!” he whispered agitatedly. 

“W’at?” asked the Irish lad in a cautious undertone. 

“The — the judge looks like old White Feather — the Witch- 
Crow!” 

“Hullee!” Mickey gasped. “Now wa’t does you s’pose — huh?” 

“Sh!” cautioned the turnkey, pushing the two toward the clear 
space in front of the judge’s seat. 

The eyes of all the spectators were turned upon the two young 
prisoners, but the judge did not look up from the ledger he was 
thumbing. Everything was hushed to silence — a silence that seemed 
the lull preceding dire disaster. 

“Mickey Marvel!” came in a hoarse croak from the tall desk. 

Everybody started and exchanged wondering glances, and sev- 
eral shook their heads ominously. Barney turned pale and said to 
his companion in an awe-struck whisper: 


IVitch Crow 


“It is the Witch-Crow, Mickey!” 

But the latter skeptically shook his head. 

“It is!” Barney insisted. “Sh!” again cautioned the officer hav- 
ing the prisoners in charge. 

And again silence reigned. 

“Who brings the charge of stealing against this boy?” asked the 
judge, his hoarse voice breaking into a strident falsetto at the end of 
the sentence. 

The policeman who had arrested Mickey arose and said : “Your 
Honor, I arrested him on the charge of breaking open slot-machines 
and tapping tills. But of the witnesses I depended on to convict him, 
some have failed to appear, while others decline to testify, on the 
ground that they know nothing of his guilt or innocence. So, Your 
Honor, I recommend that the prisoner be discharged.” 

Mickey heaved a sigh of infinite relief, Barney looked the sat- 
isfaction he felt, and everybody breathlessly awaited the judge’s de- 
cision. 

“Mickey Marvel is discharged,” came in a husky, muffled voice 
from the high desk. 

But His Honor did not lift his eyes from the open book before 
him, and no one could catch a glimpse of his features concealed in the 
shadow of the ample hood he wore. 

Then he went on : 


II2 



“Mickey Marvel!” Came in a Hoarse Croak From the Desk. 






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and Barney Bylow 

‘^And officer, I sentence you to pay to the prisoner the sum of 
one hundred dollars as damages for false imprisonment, and to spend 
thirty days in jail. When court is adjourned you can pay over to 
Mr. Marvel the sum I have named and then go and lock yourself 
up. Haw, haw, haw!” 

The policeman’s fat face went white, and he collapsed into a 
rotund heap, his eyes bulging. The spectators sat and stared, open 
mouthed, and Mickey gasped in sheer astonishment. Barney felt 
that surely the end of all things was near at hand, for the rattling 
chuckle of the judge was the harsh cackle of the Witch-Crow to a 
nicety. 

“Barney Bylow is charged with highway robbery. Who ap- 
pears against him?” 

At the judge’s words, the young man of the automobile arose 
and came forward. 

“Your Honor,” he said, “T preferred the charge of highway 
robbery against the boy, but I’ve recovered my money and I with- 
draw the charge.” 

“Haw, haw, haw! Law, law, law!” cackled the judge. “So 
you’ve recovered your money, eh? Good — very good! Did Bar- 
ney Bylow give it back to you?” 

‘‘N — o,” the youn^ man said hesitatingly. 

“Didn’t he have it?” 


IVitch Crow 


“I — I guess not.’’ 

“But you got your money back?” 

“Yes.” 

“Miss Brainard restored the amount to you, to keep you from 
prosecuting the boy; I know all about it.” The judge chuckled 
huskily, and the young man and Miss Brainard exchanged surprised 
and wondering glances. “Will you swear, young man, that Barney 
Bylow did not rob you?” 

“Yes — no, that is — I — I — ” And the young man stopped, cov- 
ered with confusion. 

Miss Brainard arose and came forward, smiling graciously. 

“Your Honor,” she murmured sweetly, putting a plump arm 
around Barney’s neck and drawing him to her, “I’m ready to swear 
that this boy didn’t rob anyone.” 

“Then the prisoner’s discharged,” the judge grumbled gruffly, 
“and court’s adjourned. Now you people clear out of here, all ex- 
cept Barney Bylow; I want to talk with him.” 

The people began to file out slowly and reluctantly. Barney 
stood spell-bound, wondering what was going to happen to him. He 
thought of turning and dashing away, but, for some reason, his legs 
refused to perform their office. Miss Brainard put both arms 
around the lad and bent and kissed him, murmuring brokenly: 

“There — there, dear! Don’t fret; you shan’t be hurt. Be 
quiet; I’ll be in again soon.” 


and Barney Bylozv 

He looked up into her face, and was greatly surprised to find 
that she much resembled his mother — only younger, much younger. 
Then he stood with eyes half closed, wondering what she meant by 
her words — wondering until his brain reeled and his limbs trembled. 

With an effort of the will he aroused himself and swept his 
eyes around the big, gloomy room. It was empty of people, ap- 
parently. He was alone; Mickey, even, had deserted him. In- 
voluntarily he glanced toward the judge’s desk. The black figure 
had disappeared. No! There it was, coming toward him minc- 
ing and teetering. It was the Witch-Crow — yes, it was the Witch- 
Crow in form and dress, but her hood was thrown back, and the 
face was the face of his mother — and beaming with love and ten- 
derness! 

Was it his mother, or was it the Witch-Crow? He wondered, 
he pondered, he puzzled. She came up to him, and he did not 
shrink from her. She put an arm around him and patted his cheek, 
and he nestled close to her! He heard her say softly: 

“Poor boy — poor, dear boy! And you want to go home, do 
you? Well, shut your eyes, and when you open them you’ll be at 
home; the doctor says you will. That’s it — that’s it! Close your 
eyes and sleep — sleep!” 

Barney felt himself tottering, falling. Somebody caught him 
and laid him down gently. Then all was blackness — oblivion. 


IVitch Crow 


“Why — why, I’m in bed!” 

Barney raised himself upon his elbow and looked around him. 
But he felt weak and dizzy, so he lay back again. 



“Yes, I’m in bed — in my own bed — at home,” he whispered to 
himself, letting his eyes rest upon the well-known objects of his lit- 
tle bedroom. 

It was so. There was the rag carpet and the prints upon the 
walls. He recognized the familiar pattern of the wall paper; he 
passed his fingers over the raised figures of the counterpane. He 




and Barney Bylow 

was at home — in his own room — in his own bed. The forenoon sun- 
shine streamed in at the open window; the odor of flowers made the 
air sweet and heavy. He heard the birds singing, the chickens cack- 
ling. And who was that seated in a low rocking-chair near his 
bedside, her hands folded in her lap, her head bowed in weariness 
and light slumber?” 

“Mother!” he called. 

And he was surprised at the sound of his own voice, it was 
so weak and quavering. 

His mother arose instantly and came to him. 

“Yes, mother’s here, dear,” she said soothingly. Then, a pleased 
expression lighting her careworn countenance, “Why, you’re awake 
— you’re yourself Barney!” 

“How did I get home?” 

“You’ve been at home all the time, dear.” 

“No I haven’t,” he cried petulantly. “I’ve been to the city; 
Fve— ” 

She put her finger upon his lips and said gently: 

“There — there! You mustn’t talk any more for the present; 
you’ve been very ill for several days. You got overheated in the 
hay lot, and your father found you unconscious when he went to haul 
in the hay. Now go to sleep again— that’s a good boy. When 
you’re stronger, you may tell me all about where you’ve been and 


IVitch Crow 


what you’ve seen. Although” — smiling down at him — “you’ve told 
me much about it already.” 

Barney felt a delicious languor stealing over him, so he obedi- 
ently closed his eyes and fell asleep again. 

When he was stronger, he told his mother and father of all 
the vagaries of his delirium, concluding: 

“The crow I saw in the tree, and the book I’d been reading — 
‘The Waifs of New York,’ that Uncle Dick gave me — made me 
dream it all, I suppose.” 

His mother smiled and kissed him; his father remarked dryly: 

“There’s a lesson in it, at any rate, Barney.” 

Barney grinned broadly. 

“I’ve learned the lesson,” he replied. 



THE END 


The SaalField Publishing Company’s 

PUBLICATION'S 


THE SAALFIELD MUSLIN BOOKS 

All my other books are worn 
And the leaves are badly torn, 

But the muslin books I found 
Were as good as newly bound. 

THE SAALFIELD MUSLIN BOOKS are printed on soft linen in exceedingly 
bright colors. They may be bent, folded and rolled and yet not be broken or torn. 
They may be washed and the colors will not run, or the baby may, with perfect 
safety, put the leaves into his mouth and the print will not come off, or the book 
be soiled the least bit. There are bright pictures on every page. The print is 
clear and easily read. They are books in which every child will take unbounded 
delight, for the simple reason that they do not need to be careful for fear of spoil- 
ing or tearing them. Published in four sizes as follows: 

Series no. 1. 

MOTHER GOOSE FAVORITES 

TINY TOT’S A-B-C BOOK 
BABY’S TOYS 
BABY’S PETS 

Size, 4 1/^x6 inches, 12 pages 

Series no. 2. 

ON THE NURSERY STAIRS 
NURSERY PETS 
FURRY FRIENDS 
MY PLAYMATES’ A-B-C 

Size, 6x9 inches, 12 pages !. 

Series no. 3. 

.WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN? 

MY A-B-C BOOK 
BABY’S FRIENDS 
BABY’S DOINGS 

Size, 8x9 inches, 16 pages 

Series no. 4. 

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS 
BABY’S A-B-C BOOK 
MOTHER GOOSE JINGLES 
ANIMAL BOOK 

Size, Sxliyo inches, 18 pages 


$ .15 


$ .25 


$ .50 


$ .75 



THE BILLY WHISKERS SERIES 

By Frances Trego Montgomery. Illustrated by W. H. Fry. 

BILLY WHISKERS. Six colored illustrations. The biography of an 
enterprising goat that has been purchased for the amusement of several small 
children. 4to. Bound in boards $1.00 

BILLY WHISKERS’ KIDS. Six colored illustrations. “Billy Whiskers’ 
Kids” is a sequel to “Billy Whiskers.” Day and Night, Billy Whiskers’ Kids, 
are sold to a little girl, and not liking their new quarters, are glad to be 
kidnapped by Billy and Nanny. 4to. Bound in boards $1.00 

BILLY WHISKERS, JR. Six colored illustrations. A sequel to “Billy 
Whiskers’ Kids.” Night, from his resemblance to his father, is called in 
this new book Billy Whiskers, Jr. 4to. Boards $1.00 

CHRISTMAS WITH SANTA CLAUS. By Frances Trego Montgomery. 
This is a tale of two little children’s visit to the home of Santa. He carries 
them there in his wonderful sleigh. They meet Mrs. Santa, are shown a royal 
good time for a few days just prior to Christmas, and then Santa brings them 
back to their homes when he makes his annual trip. Boards, 4to, full- 
page colored illustrations and numerous white and black drawings by Ruth 
Hallock $1.00 

WITCH CROW AND BARNEY BYLOW. By James Ball Naylor. 
Illustrated by Cabll B. Williams. A farmer lad yearns for the great city, 
and wishes for unlimited wealth. A Witch Crow overhears him, and be- 
stows a magic penny upon him, saying that he never shall have more and 
never less than a penny. The adventures he has in the city on account of 
this wonderful penny make a tale every boy and girl will read with absorbing 
interest. 4to, boards. Six full-page illustrations and numerous white and 
black drawings $1.00 

JIM CROW TALES. By Burton Stoner. Illustrated by Carll B. Wil- 
liams. A book on the order of “B’rer Rabbit” tales. Jim Crow, a farmer’s 
pet, tells of his friends and their doings — the fox, the beavers, the bears, the 
squirrels, raccoons, woodchuck, alligator, etc. Each story complete in itself, 
yet all having to do with the wild life of forest and stream. A book which is 
unusually attractive to young students of nature. Dozens of beautiful half- 
tone illustrations showing the animals in their favorite haunts. Boards. 4to. 
Illustrated •. $ 1.00 

SQUEAKS AND SQUAWKS FROM FAR-AWAY FORESTS. By 

Burton Stoner. Illustrated by Ciias. L. Bull. Mr. Stoner has found an un- 
discovered country along the broad trail of animal stories. His special ex- 
cursions into the wild are such as appeal to boys and girls who love animals 
and want to know more of the life of the forest and thicket. His stories 
are Natural History told in witching tales. Boards. 4to. Illustrated in 
colors ctoftyf, $1.00 


B D 5. 7 











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